The Price of Honesty
by Sashile
Summary: A murder halfway around the world gets the attention of Team Gibbs, and by the time the case is resolved and the questions are answered, the lives of several members of the MCRT, both past and present, will change forever. Tiva, fits with my other stories
1. Chapter 1: Opening

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 1--Opening**

_Disclaimer: We all know the drill. The totality of my possessions does not include anything related to NCIS, despite the recent passage of several gift-giving holidays._

_Summary: Fits in the same series as the other stories (DL, OJ&G, T&CL, CoL&W, LF), about a month after the end of _Lethal Fractures_. A murder halfway around the world gets the attention of Team Gibbs, and by the time the case is resolved and the questions are answered, the lives of several members of the MCRT, both past and present, will change forever. _

_A/N: Just like with _Consequences of Love and War_, I'm writing this one as I go (unlike pretty much the others, where I had 20+ chapters written before I start posting). What this means for you is that I won't be posting at the most regular of all schedules; it also means that I'll be taking any suggestions you have into account, so feel free to give them._

_The first four or so chapters (after the opening), don't have a whole lot to do with the whole story, but they wrap up a previous story pretty well, so that's why they're there. _

_There is some profanity (no more than one would hear in a military setting or around teenage boys), so if that offends you, sorry. _

_Oh, and Gracy will be in this, but not as a main character._

_Enjoy. And happy New Year's._

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Alex Earl was bored.

It was hardly the first time that that had happened, but he was beginning to get bored with being bored, and it was entirely his father's fault. His father's fault that he was bored, that is, not that he was bored with being bored.

He sighed and pushed his chair away from his desk, letting the tiny wheels take him to the space in front of the window.

Alex stared out into the clear day in front of him and sighed again. "Goddamn fucking country," he muttered, taking in the cloudless sky, spotless white beach, and bright blue sea in front of him. Sure, it looked nice, but the whole place represented one big fucking tropical prison cell that his father walked him into and his mother locked him in. It was his father who decided to sell his surgical practice and take a commission in the Navy, and his mother who, in her Wisteria Lane suburban housewife-ness, thought that was a wonderful idea and gushed excitedly about how proud she was of her husband and the great example she was setting for their children.

Why couldn't he have just started fucking a nurse and bought a Corvette, like any other self-respecting surgeon going through a mid-life crisis would have done?

The whole Navy thing wasn't the worst part of it, though. Sure, it was a massive paycut, which meant that Alex probably wasn't going to get the new Jeep he'd been hoping for on his sixteenth birthday, but he could learn to deal with that. What had really gotten Alex was the fucking move.

He figured his father would just go to work at the base in Corpus Christi, keeping the family in the same place and keeping Alex in his high school with the winning football team. But no, it turned out that the medical facilities at Corpus Christi didn't need a general surgeon, and even though the esteemed Dr. Earl could have taken a place on an aircraft carrier—again, keeping the family in Corpus Christi—he wasn't interested in splitting up the family. So they had to pack up and move.

To Bahrain. A fucking island in the middle of the fucking Middle East.

Mom had been thrilled with it, of course, going on and on about the opportunities to learn about different cultures and see the world and all that crap—for a woman who spent her entire adult life being a housewife and volunteering for the PTA and baking brownies for one bake sale or another, supporting her husband's decision to move the whole fucking family to the other side of the world was by the far the most exciting thing that she had ever done. And Ava, whose entire purpose of her eight year existence had been to ruin Alex's life, had carried the giant world atlas over to their father and batted her damn blue eyes and asked him to point out where they would be going, giving a wide-eyed look of excitement at how far away it was from Texas. Her second-grade class threw her a going away party in June, and now she had thirty pen-pals.

And Alex had a new high school in a country that thought that 'football' was played with a round black-and-white ball, while the friends he had been playing with since he was seven were polishing their skills for the University of Texas recruiters they would be meeting in a few years. He had asked if parents if they could send him to a boarding school instead. They thought he was joking and laughed.

His parents were the biggest idiots on the planets. He wished his parents were like Matt Kearns'. _They_ would never do anything to risk their son's future college football career.

"Stupid fucking island," he muttered again, still glaring out the window. They didn't have football; it got over a hundred degrees every day—although they insisted on saying it was 'over forty degrees', because the damn country used the damn Celsius scale—there was never anything on TV, because even with a satellite, the time zones were so fucked up that when he was awake, it was the middle of the night back home; and the few hot girls at school stuck up their noses at him because _their_ fathers were chiefs or something, not surgeons who didn't know the first thing about being in the Navy.

It had to be the first time his entire life that he was snubbed because his father was successful, which just further proved his point about how fucked up his life had become.

The only thing keeping him from hitchhiking a ride back to Texas—and he didn't even care _how_—was Erika Guess, who was not only hot, but also a former cheerleader who was just as pissed off about being in Bahrain as he was. And she also just arrived on the God-forsaken island, and _both_ of her parents were doctors—an OB and a pediatrician—so she was right there with him, being excluded by classmates who thought that they didn't know anything about Navy life.

'Navy life' had sent him to Bahrain. He didn't need to know anything else about it.

The only problem was, Erika was _ridiculously_ hard to impress. Before _her_ parents had moved her to Bahrain, she had been dating the senior quarterback—who was now playing college football at University of Southern California—and she thought they were still dating. So while they spent all of their time outside of school together, complaining about one thing or another, he couldn't even manage to get to first base, despite his best efforts. He even went on that damn bike ride with her, which was how he broke his fucking leg and landed him in his damn bedroom after school, instead of sitting on the beach with all those enlisted girls working on their tans after sitting around the office in their uniforms all day.

God, he hated Bahrain.

Alex brightened slightly as he caught movement in a familiar window of the apartment building across the street. He didn't know who the blond man was who lived there—he never wore a uniform, but people around the neighborhood who didn't work on base were few and far between—but his girlfriend was hot, and he never closed the blinds on the windows, giving Alex a show much better than the porn Scott Edwards used to swipe from his older brother.

The man's one bedroom apartment was directly across the street and one floor down from Alex's bedroom, giving him a great view of both the bedroom and the living room, and Alex had seen the blond man and his very fit dark-haired girlfriend in the bed, on the couch, and once, against the kitchen counter. It was pretty much everything a fifteen-year-old boy could ask for.

This afternoon, the motion that caught his eye was the man walking into his living room, his girlfriend close behind him. They appeared to be in no particular hurry to do anything, much to Alex's disappointment, but he could be patient—it wasn't as if he had anything else going on, not with his right leg in a cast. They must be off whatever work they did for the day; the man grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge, handing one over to his girlfriend. Alex grinned as he watched the girlfriend pop the cap off the bottle with a swift motion against the counter. Her beer in hand, she began aimlessly wandering through the living room, using her free hand to gesture as she spoke, but it wasn't her hands that Alex was watching; it was the way her ass moved in those well-fitted khakis.

Damn, she was hot.

For several long minutes, nothing changed between them. The blond man continued whatever he was doing in the kitchen, moving continuously in and out of Alex's line of sight from the window, while the girlfriend continued her pacing and talking, taking occasional sips from the brown bottle in her hand. "Come on," Alex urged under his breath at the girlfriend, "take some clothes off. Get busy. What the hell is your boyfriend doing, and why isn't he fucking you on the couch?" He frowned as he studied the blond man for a minute before he registered what he was doing, and then the frown turned into an incredulous expression. "You're unloading the dishwasher?" he asked in disbelief. "You have a smoking hot woman in your apartment, and you're wasting time unloading the _dishwasher_? Come on, give me more than _that_."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the atmosphere in the apartment across the street changed abruptly. The girlfriend stopped her pacing, her body stiff as she turned to her boyfriend, who remained in the kitchen, out of Alex's sight. He obviously couldn't hear what they were saying, but whatever it was, the girlfriend didn't like it. "No, no fighting," Alex begged them. "Come on, kiss and make-up. And then some make-up sex."

For a second, he thought they might have heard him, because the dark-haired woman went around the kitchen counter, disappearing from Alex's line of sight. "Come on, come back," he urged. He continued watching the window intently, waiting for a sign that the couple would be soon heading into the living room or bedroom, barely aware of the minutes ticking by without sight of either member of the couple.

He was sure it was time to give up when he registered the changing light on the floor, indicating the opening and closing of the apartment door. Sighing heavily at the realization that there wouldn't be any make-up sex any time soon, he was about to wheel himself back to his desk when motion in the apartment across the street caught his eye again. Thinking that the girlfriend was coming back to apologize for leaving, he eagerly gave it his full attention.

And almost jumped out of his chair in surprise, broken leg and all.

Having slipped from his position somewhere behind the kitchen counter, the blond man was sprawled out on the floor, unmoving. And judging from the growing pool of blood under him, he wasn't going to be moving again.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 2**

_A/N: Rose Bowl champions. Take that, Ducks. The University of Oregon Ducks, that is, not Dr. Donald Mallard._

_Sorry. I digress. Just a reminder, before anyone feels the need to point out that Ziva lost her Star of David necklace in _Aliyah_ and some sort of gold chain mysteriously appeared by _Faith_, this series went AU about halfway through season six and never looked back. And it's also about a year and a half ahead of real-life; this story takes place (or at least begins) in September 2011._

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As someone who spent his childhood going to weddings to be shown off by his parents, and most of his adult life to hook up with bridesmaids and lonely female attendees, NCIS Special Agent Tony DiNozzo could have done without the ceremonies altogether. A nice card, a gift from the registry, and regrets with scripted excuses of not being able to come were his preferred methods of dealing with wedding invitations.

None of which were possible when he was the 'plus one' of a very well-trained Mossad assassin. No, that wasn't fair to the bride; both of their names had been on the invitation, but it was Ziva who insisted on going, and when Ziva made up her mind about something, it was easier to bring peace in the Middle East than change it.

"Are you sure it's absolutely necessary that we go?" he asked for what had to have been the tenth time in the last week. "I mean, the cookware set is nice enough that it doesn't require actual presence at the wedding."

"We are going, Tony, and that is final," Mossad Officer Ziva David declared as she stepped out of the bathroom, going straight for the jewelry box on top of the dresser without actually looking at him. "And you never know. You might actually have fun."

"The last time I had fun at a wedding was right after graduating from college," he mused, more to himself than her. "Frat brother was marrying a cheerleader. Open bar, lots of hot girls… That was a great night."

"Mm-hmm," Ziva murmured in reply, an amused smile on her face before practically gliding the few feet from where she had been standing to right in front of him. "If you are lucky," she said in a sultry voice as she adjusted the knot on his tie, "perhaps tonight could be a great night as well."

"Well, when you put it that way…" he began, a teasing grin on his face. Ziva smirked slightly before rising on her toes to give him a light kiss.

"Help me with my necklace?" she asked, gathering her hair and moving it to one side as she handed him the thin gold chain, turning her back to him and moving away slightly. He grinned as he draped the Star of David charm over the front of her neck and fastened the clasp, pressing his lips to the juncture of her neck and shoulder before turning her back around, this time kissing her properly.

"You look beautiful," he said honestly. The dark green dress was much more modest than many of her dresses—a little too high in the front and low on the legs for his taste—but it was well-fitted, proving the point that the right woman could make anything look good. And Ziva David was definitely the right woman.

"Thank you," she replied, and he didn't know if he was being thanked for helping with the necklace or the compliment, but didn't really care either way. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah," he grumbled, much to Ziva's amusement. "And don't think this gets you out of looking at apartments," he said warningly as he bent down to pick up the perfectly-wrapped large box of cookware, wondering for a split second where gift-wrapping fell in Mossad training amidst the piano playing and gourmet cooking. A few weeks before, he finally got her to agree to look at apartments to move into together, after almost two years of her making excuses about why they shouldn't. The weekend they were supposed to begin their search, a case got in the way, and even after they put another perp behind bars—or, more accurately, in a padded room in a state mental facility—it kept getting pushed aside until DiNozzo brought it up again, in a way that Ziva knew that he was onto her delaying tactics. He wanted to begin their search by driving around and looking at places; Ziva insisted on making lists of 'must haves' that they both had and go about their search systematically. The things he needed were simple: doors, at least one bathroom, and a wall large enough for his entertainment center and DVD collection. Ziva's, needless to say, were a bit more extensive than that.

They took said lists to an internet search, which was fairly useless—on-line real estate listings rarely included the distance from the front door to the nearest stairwell, and that stairwell to the parked cars; how many hiding places there would be for weapons of various sizes; or how well-fortified the walls and windows were against an outside attack. He was ready to insist that they scrap the internet search and go back to his original plan of driving around looking for 'For Rent' signs, but then she pulled out the wedding invitation he forgot they got, and instead of shopping for apartments, they went shopping for a wedding gift.

Tony carried the large box down to Ziva's car, positioning it in the trunk before taking the passenger seat, but not without grumbling complaints about her driving and how ending up wrapped around a telephone pole would really ruin what was left of his weekend.

They had crossed the Beltway on their drive east toward Annapolis before Tony brought up the apartment search again. "I think I heard someone in the lobby saying that there's a two-bedroom available on the sixth floor," he offered. Ziva frowned, shooting him a quick look before her eyes returned to the road.

"I do not know if I want to stay in your building," she said, and it was his turn to frown.

"What's wrong with my building?" Ziva gave a quick barking laugh.

"Where do you want me to start?" she asked, slightly mocking. She glanced over at him again to see him staring at her with a puzzled expression on his face. "There are more college students than real adults, for one."

"I'm not seeing the problem." She chuckled slightly and shook her head. "And what's so great about your building?"

"Just because I do not want to move into your building, does not mean I want to stay in mine."

"Do you have any particular building in mind?" he asked, slightly mocking, "or are we going to continue to look for a place that meets your unrealistic requirements in order to postpone actually _getting_ a place that much longer? You know, I could just let my lease lapse, and then you'll be forced to let me move into your too-small place."

"Or you could be homeless."

"I am feeling so loved right now." That comment made Ziva chuckle again, glancing over at him before moving her hand from the gearshift to squeeze his briefly.

"I do love you," she reminded him.

"I know," he grumbled, making her laugh again. They changed the subject away from the apartment search and onto the wedding they were about to attend, pausing in their conversation to show their IDs at the gate to the Naval Academy.

They stepped out of the car to a bright and warm Sunday afternoon, the slight breeze ruffling Ziva's hair, and for a long minute, neither so much as moved, just watching the other over the top of the car. It was Ziva who broke the spell with a smile and gesture toward the object Tony held in his hands. "We should get you ready to go inside," she said.

"Gotta dress up the boyfriend to make him presentable," Tony joked, handing the dark blue embroidered cap to her as she pulled those ever-present hair pins from a location he still hadn't identified.

He bent his head down to allow her to reach in order to attach the _kippah_, but didn't let his eyes leave hers, a look of concentration on her face as she worked to get the cap to stay in place. After a minute of fussing, she declared herself done and turned her gaze to meet his, still watching her. "I love you," he said simply, and the smile that crossed Ziva's face was light and mirth before she kissed him lightly.

"I know," she replied matter-of-factly, making him laugh as they finally turned and headed toward the Naval Academy's Jewish Chapel, his hand trailing down her arm until he captured her hand in his, not missing the smile on her lips at the gesture.

They were still a few minutes early, joining the other early-comers in the chapel's lobby, talking quietly between themselves as they both scanned the space for one of the few familiar faces they knew they would see.

They didn't have to wait long. "Tony! Ziva!" They both turned in surprise toward the staircase, where Navy Lieutenant Jacob Sault, MD was descending the steps toward them, a bright grin on his face and immaculately pressed choker whites on his body. He further surprised them by wrapping Ziva in an excited embrace.

"Been hitting the booze a bit early, Sault?" Tony joked as he shook the psychiatrist's hand. The almost-sheepish grin that crossed Dr. Sault's face told him that he guessed that one right.

"What can I say?" he asked with a shrug. "It's not every day my little sister gets hitched. Oh, there you are," he said as his obviously-pregnant wife snaked an arm around his waist, before turning and pressing a kiss to her temple.

"I think he started hitting the bottle a week ago," Dr. Hallie Sault joked in reference to DiNozzo's comment. "The game yesterday certainly didn't change that."

Tony glowered briefly at the comment as Ziva groaned. "I still can't believe it," he said, ignoring his girlfriend's eye roll. "I mean, it's _Toledo. _The fact that we only beat them by one touchdown is pretty much inexcusable. If that's the way the team is going to be playing this year, we're going to be in trouble."

"I had to miss it, believe it or not," the female Dr. Sault commented sadly. "I was on-call, chasing interns around Hopkins into all hours of the night. But don't worry," she added dryly, "Jake texted me the play-by-play while it was happening, and then recapped the highlights when I got home this morning."

"Just looking out for you," Jake said jokingly. He turned back to Tony and Ziva and opened his mouth to speak, but before any words came out, the deep resonate sound of a bell chiming was heard in the chapel. "Guess that's our cue," he said instead, grinning widely. He gave Hallie another quick kiss before again turning to Tony. "Come on, DiNozzo. Let me introduce you to the man who's about to become my brother-in-law."


	3. Chapter 3

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 3**

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The Jewish Chapel at the Naval Academy was all light wood and glass, the bright September late-afternoon sun shining through the windows. DiNozzo found himself squinting against that glow as he watching Hallie Sault lead Ziva up the stairs to whatever could be found above. "This way," Jake Sault said, his white _kippah_ visible as he nodded his head toward a room off the main lobby.

A loud cheer was heard as they crossed through the threshold of the room, likely directed at Dr. Sault, judging by the number of men in dress uniforms with either the leaf-and-acorn symbol of the Navy's medical corps or the gold caduceus of their Army counterparts, whom, like the psychiatrist, all seemed to have started drinking early that day. "We don't get out enough," Sault said as an explanation.

"Guess not," DiNozzo replied with a grin. "I just want to know one thing—who's holding the supply?"

"Probably the groom," one of the Army doctors said, nodding toward the white-uniformed officer sitting at the middle of the long table. "Hey, Ostheimer, you got your flask?"

The tall blond-haired Navy lieutenant commander looked up from mid-conversation with Rabbi Daniel Sault, squinting slightly through his black-rimmed glasses before grinning. He pulled a hip flask from his pocket and shook it slightly between his thumb and forefinger. "Seems a bit empty. You got your coin?" he asked in reply.

The Army doctor, a captain whose name tag said 'CODY', fished around in his pocket before pulling out a military challenge coin. "General Chiarelli," he said triumphantly. "Four stars. Vice Chief of Staff of the Army."

"General Conway, Commandant of the Marine Corps," was the reply from Dr. Ostheimer as another coin was pulled out of another pocket. "Also four stars, reports directly to the SecNav. Not vice of anything. You lose, Cody." The other doctor groaned good-naturedly as he removed his own flask and handed it over. "I expected more from someone whose father wears stars," Dr. Ostheimer teased, using his friend's West Point flask to refill his own before handing it back to its rightful owner, replacing his flask in his pocket.

"I can beat that one," DiNozzo interjected, removing his own coin from his pocket before tossing it over. "SecNav."

"Impressive," Dr. Ostheimer said, eyebrows raised as he turned the coin over in his hands. He glanced up expectantly, making Jake Sault realize that he had yet to make introductions.

"Tony, my very soon-to-be brother-in-law, Dr. Seth Ostheimer. Seth, NCIS Special Agent Tony DiNozzo."

To DiNozzo's surprise, Dr. Ostheimer all but jumped out of his seat, hand extended for a shake. "It's nice to finally meet you, sir," he said. "I've heard a lot about you and your partner from Hannah and the rest of the Sault family. I'm glad you were able to join us today."

"So am I," Tony joked. "Means I'm not working." The workload for the Major Crimes Response Team had always been on the heavy side, but it seemed like the cases were piling up even more than usual in the last month or so, to the point that, more than once, they had to split the team up to work two cases at once. No wonder Ziva was always finding excuses not to look at apartments; with how tense they both were after a day at work, minor disagreements about the size of windows or kitchen cabinets had the potential to turn in all-out battle.

The doctor grinned at DiNozzo's comment. "I know the feeling."

"Seth's an orthopedic surgery resident at the newly-christened—," Dr. Sault started to explain, before he was cut off by a chorus of voices finishing his sentence.

"Walter Reed National Military Medical Center," almost everyone in a uniform said in a sing-song voice.

"Stupidest name change over," Jake commented.

"No kidding," Dr. Cody scoffed. "You squids don't deserve to work at a facility named after Major Walter Reed."

"You're just jealous because they closed _your_ hospital," one of the Navy doctors shot back.

"Oh, hell, no," Cody denied quickly. "That building was falling apart at the seams."

"Because that's the way the Army does things," that same Navy doctor replied. The Army vs. Navy trash-talk continued throughout the room before Rabbi Sault put an end to it.

"A toast," he said in his most commanding voice, which stopped all conversation in mid-sentence. Although not a physically imposing man—he was tall but very lean, his dark hair more than a little gray at the temples—spending his entire adult life in the rabbinate and a good deal of it in uniform gave him a certain presence. It didn't hurt that many in that room had been conditioned to pay attention when Navy captains in uniform spoke. In the silence of the room, he held up his own flask. "To all military physicians, no matter what uniform you wear, for tending to our troops when they need you most."

"Hear, hear!" the men cheered, raising their flasks before taking a drink, making DiNozzo very glad he ignored Ziva's instructions to leave his flask at home. He didn't care if it would be a traditional Jewish wedding and the bride was the daughter of the rabbi; it was still a military wedding, and he knew how freely alcohol flowed in such a setting. As if to prove that point, the toasts continued, covering everything from the relevant to obscure, to include the inability of the West Point football team to win a game—that was from Dr. Ostheimer—and Ohio State's superiority over every other football team—a toast that Jake Sault proposed and DiNozzo cheered loudly to.

"And now," Rabbi Sault interjected, a dangerous twinkle in his eye that was similar to the one his son had when making bets on college football games, "I believe it's time for the groom to give us a lesson from the Torah." Judging from the surprised looks on the faces of most of the guests, they hadn't realized that this was part of the pre-wedding festivities.

Dr. Ostheimer cleared his throat as he stood, a paper with quick notes held in his hand. "My apologies to most of my colleagues, but as far as I'm concerned, readings from the Torah are done in Hebrew." He gave a quick grin before he began his recitation, his voice resonant in the foreign language.

He had only said a few sentences before Jake Sault interrupted, singing at full volume: "_Anchors Aweigh, my boys, Anchors Aweigh._" After a few seconds of stunned silence, amazed that he would interrupt a man's reading of the Torah before his wedding, the Navy members of the party seemed to catch on, joining in on the familiar Navy hymn, and it wasn't long after that that those wearing Army blues began competing with them, singing "The Army Goes Rolling Along," at the top of their lungs. DiNozzo, meanwhile, chuckled at the singing, recognizing that Jake was sparing his friend from having to actually_ give_ the lesson that his future father-in-law called for. And judging by the amused look on Rabbi Sault's face as he joined the Navy officers on their song, that was exactly what was supposed to happen.

After the room quieted again after members of both services finished their respective songs, one of the Navy physicians, whom, judging by the communal yarmulke slipping off his head, wasn't accustomed to wearing one, held his flask in the air again. "To Jake sparing us from having to listen to Ostheimer pontificate in _another_ language."

"To Jake!" the others cheered, prompting Dr. Sault to give a small bow before they all drank from their flasks.

After the drinks were lowered, the rabbi stood again, this time bearing an official-looking piece of paper. "Before we get too carried away with the toasts and Seth is no longer able to make responsible decisions on his own accord, I believe we have some business to attend to," he began. For the sake of the non-Jewish members of the group, who equaled, if not exceeded, the Jews in attendance, he explained, "The _Ketubah_, the official marriage contract, in which the husband outlines to his wife his responsibilities to her, in a legal sense. This document is not meant to be a declaration of love, nor a prayer or scripture, but an agreement between husband and wife as they enter into the binds of matrimony. Traditionally, it would be drawn up by the husband and the rabbi, but to simplify things—and because I'm sure Hannah would not appreciate anyone deciding anything on her behalf—it is now a pre-formed document, to be filled in with the appropriate names and dates on the day of the wedding." He turned to Dr. Ostheimer with eyebrows raised, who merely nodded in return, and took a seat and began filling in the blanks of the document, reading as he went in Aramaic.

"If this is an agreement as to the legal obligations between husband and wife," one of the Navy officers mused aloud, "should the bride's father really be filling it out?"

Dr. Ostheimer shrugged. "It has to be filled out by a rabbi," he explained, "which, today, leaves either the father or brother of the bride. I guess I'm hosed no matter what." The words were met with laughter, and even earned a chuckle from both rabbis Sault, as the elder continued reading and writing where necessary.

After he was done, he called for witnesses, which was apparently pre-arranged, as Jake Sault and another Navy officer stepped forward. "I feel a bit strange, witnessing my sisters' _Ketubah_ after my father filled it out," Jake commented as he added the Hebrew script of his name as the first witness.

"Well, at least you understood what was read to you," the other witness, a Lieutenant Commander Kohn, remarked, taking the pen from Sault. "Seth had to teach me how to write my name in Hebrew in order to be a witness."

"I figured it might be a bit strange if both the Sault brothers signed as witnesses," Dr. Ostheimer remarked dryly. "And you're the closest thing to a Jew I know from my Academy days."

"I _am_ Jewish!" Kohn replied indignantly.

"Yeah, kinda," Ostheimer mused with a grin. "You're Reform, so we'll give you partial credit."

"You're so generous," Kohn grumbled, handing the pen over to his former roommate, who turned it over to the elder Rabbi Sault.

"Well, shall we?" the Navy captain asked Osteimer, gesturing toward the door. The younger man didn't even have to think about it.

"Let's go," he replied, leading the procession of men out of the room and up the stairs, where his bride would be waiting.

---

There was only so much singing and dancing and laughing Ziva David could take before she wanted to begin discharging her weapon. Fortunately for her and the rest of the females in attendance, that amount seemed to be roughly the same amount as this particular wedding would have before the arrival of the men.

Raised in Israel, and having lived there—more or less—until about six years ago, Ziva knew all about Jewish weddings, including the segregation of the men and the woman, and the writing of the _Ketubah_, and the procession of the men from their _Kabbalat Panim_ to where the bride was waiting.

She couldn't help but smile as Tony immediately sought her out, walking quickly to her side to drape an arm across her shoulders as soon as she was spotted. She tilted her head up for a quick kiss, just long enough to taste the tequila on his lips. "I do not know what I should be more annoyed at you for," she murmured as they separated. "The fact that you did not listen when I told you not to bring your flask, or the fact that you took my tequila."

He flashed her a quick grin. "Think of it this way," he replied. "I'm more than willing to share the contents of my flask with you."

"I should hope so, since it is _my_ tequila that you used to fill that flask." She pointedly ignored his chuckle as she turned her attention to the bride and the groom, taking in the tall lieutenant commander's wide grin at the sight of his fiancée sitting in the large chair, a matching grin on her face. He trailed a finger down her jaw before leaning down to kiss her cheek before straightening, gently reaching for the veil and attempting to cover her face with it. In the process, though, he ended up snagging more than a few of her glossy brown curls, creating a mess of hair and lace, which he then attempted to fix. With a bright laugh, Hannah stilled his hands and gave his fingers a slight squeeze before fixing it herself, and Ziva couldn't help but smile at the move.

While Tony was downstairs enjoying toasts with the men and she was enduring the laughing and dancing of the women, she didn't even get the chance to speak to the woman who invited them to her wedding. She had initially met Lt. Hannah Sault more than two and a half years ago, immediately after the younger woman's live-in boyfriend had been killed by the psychotic wife of a rabbi, who seemed to think that her life's mission was to prevent Jews from marrying outside the faith. Since then, she had only seen Hannah a few times a year at random times when she came up from Norfolk, but they maintained a common line of communication thanks to Jake and Hallie Sault and their love of Ohio State athletics.

Without even realizing she was doing it, she reached for Tony's hand, earning a grin as he captured her fingers. "Come on," he said, nodding toward the door, where guests were slowly filing out. "If we don't hurry, all the good seats will be taken."


	4. Chapter 4

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 4**

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Tony couldn't help but wonder when he became a sixteen-year-old girl.

The ceremony was nice—Ziva had briefed him on Jewish weddings, so he didn't have to spend the time annoying her with questions about what was happening—and he was pleased to discover that he was actually able to follow along with the Hebrew words spoken by the co-officiating Rabbis Sault; and honestly, who doesn't love a sword arch? But now at the reception, instead of searching the female portions of the crowd for the woman most likely to want to have sex with him afterwards, his mind seemed stuck at smiling at how happy Hannah looked.

And there was an annoying, nagging voice in the back of his head that seemed to want to know when it would be his turn, which was crazy, because he had _no_ desire at the moment to get married. He'd be happy to find an apartment.

As he had been doing since he arrived at the reception, he attempted to silence—or at least quiet—that nagging voice with alcohol, now in the form of a beer Ziva had rescued from the bar for him. The thought of his partner/girlfriend and the fact that she wasn't in her seat next to him caused a sudden frown as he began scanning the crowd for her dark curls.

He grinned at the realization that he was searching for the woman most likely to want to have sex with him afterwards.

The sudden clinking of a knife against a glass distracted DiNozzo from his search, which was why he jumped a good six inches off his chair at the sensation of lips pressing to his cheek, followed by Ziva's chuckle as she moved from behind him to the empty seat at his left. "You know I hate it when you do that," he grumbled as the room quieted for the toasts.

"Why do you think I do it?" she asked sweetly in reply before turning toward the front, where Jake Sault was standing with the offending glass and knife.

"Someone made the mistake of handing me a microphone, so now I feel the need to use it," Dr. Sault said with a grin once the room quieted. "I'll try to make this short, because we have a lot of toasts to get through, and that cake looks really, really good."

"It's from Cake Love," Hannah called out to him from her seat in the middle of the long table, naming a popular bakery in DC.

"Cake Love? Seriously?" He turned to his parents with a mock glare. "You guys spoil her too much," he informed them, earning himself a few chuckles from the room and exaggerated eye rolls from both of his siblings. "I actually did have a speech prepared for this, believe it or not," he said, getting back on topic as he removed a piece of paper from his pocket and quickly scanned it. "And now I don't want to read that one." He folded it back up and tossed it on the table, earning some more laughter. "Even though his choice of medical schools completely sucks, I don't think I could say just how honored I was when Seth asked me to be his best man," he said, his voice becoming serious, "or how happy I was when Hannah told me that they were going to get married." He stopped talking for a moment, and DiNozzo couldn't but wonder if he was thinking the same thing he was, about how Lt. Chris Shaw was murdered while driving Hannah's car, with her in the passenger seat. And then, just like that, the moment was over, and the doctor grinned again. "You know what they say about people deserving each other. I just don't know which of these two that's worse for." His grin widened before again raising his glass. "So, Seth and Hannah, _mazel tov_, and may you enjoy all that married life has to offer." Bringing his glass to his lips, Tony didn't miss Hallie giving her husband a punch in the shoulder, followed by an indignant reply from Jake, and couldn't help but snicker at both of them.

"Something funny, Tony?" Ziva asked. He turned to her, a grin on his face.

"Between Hannah and Hallie, I don't know who's going to kill Jake first." She appeared to actually think about that for a moment.

"Hannah," she finally declared. "Hallie is too busy to raise a child alone."

"Good point," he agreed, "but do you really think Jake would be much help?"

"Probably not between the months of September and January," she acknowledged, "but I think he would do fine when the Buckeyes are not playing."

"I think you're underestimating Hallie's dedication to the team."

Ziva's chuckle died down at the same time Seth Ostheimer accepted the microphone, their side conversation having had taken up the brief maid of honor's toast. "Before I get to my toast," the surgeon began, "I've had some questions from the peanut gallery, so I'm going to say this once and get it over with: no, we're not splitting into separate male and female dancing parties like they always show in Jewish weddings on TV, mostly because our beloved Captains Emily Shin and Beth Polfer would spend the next few years whining about being segregated from the rest of the orthopedic surgeons." The table that was apparently filled with orthopods from Walter Reed National Military Medical Center erupted in hoots of laughter, and even the two pink-faced female surgeons in Army blues joined in with a few chuckles.

"A lot of people think that Hannah and I just met a year and a half ago," Ostheimer continued, "but truthfully, I met her the first time on a Sunday at the beginning of my second classman year at Annapolis, at the first formation to march over to the synagogue for services, and I remember that she was exhausted and stressed—in other words, a plebe," that earned a few chuckles, likely from Academy grads, "and she was definitely still a little put off with the idea of thinking of Sunday as the Sabbath, because it would just be too hard on the Navy to let things actually make sense. But as it always does, the routine got easier, and over the next two years, we learned how to help each other out, and, I like to think, became friends. And then, as these things happen, I headed off to Michigan for medical school, she picked up more and more responsibilities at the Academy, and we gradually fell out of touch." He grinned slightly and glanced over at Jake. "And then, after the fun of medical school and internship and a few years as a flight surgeon, I meet Jake Sault, and completely missed the significance of the fact that he had the same last name as that plebe I met years before. And because Jake is not nearly as clever as he likes to think he is—after all, he is a Buckeye, which is clearly inferior to a Wolverine—his hints that I should meet his younger sister are pretty obvious. I wasn't all that interested in being set up by my friends—after all, I had a mother to arrange those awkward blind dates—," he shot his mother a quick grin, "but he eventually wore me down with promises of free beer at Rock Bottom, and I figured that no matter how bad it went, I would still be getting a burger and some good beer for my troubles." At his side, Hannah began chuckling, and he gave her a warm grin before continuing, his eyes still on his new bride. "Jake had some sort of emergency at the hospital and was running late, so I walked into Rock Bottom by myself, and who should I find sitting at the bar but Hannah Sault, and I began putting the pieces together. And I don't think I've ever seen someone look so puzzled as the good Dr. Sault when he finally arrived to see his sister and his friend talking and laughing like old friends at the bar." This time, he looked over to his friend. "Did you really think that there were so many Jews at the Naval Academy that I wouldn't know the _one_ female Jewish Mid we had my Firstie year?" He gave another grin before returning his attention to Hannah. "I still can't believe how lucky I am that you let me love you, and to be loved by you," he said simply before raising his glass. "This is to you, Hannah." He took a sip of his champagne before returning to his seat, his speech rewarded with a deep kiss from his new wife and wolf whistles from the table of surgeons.

"I can't believe you're making me follow that," Hannah complained, her voice thick as she rose from her seat, wiping a tear from her eye. She cleared her throat before beginning. "I still can't believe it's you," she said, speaking directly to Ostheimer. "I can't believe it was you, who Jake 'casually' mentioned I should meet the next time I came up to DC. I honestly can't believe Jake let me date _another_ guy with ties to a Big Ten school that _isn't_ The Ohio State University." There were a few chuckles at her words, likely from people who knew just how much pride Jake had in his medical school, before she took another deep breath, her eyes filling with tears she was honestly fighting to keep from falling. "The _last_ thing I wanted was to play the dating game again, because after Chris, I didn't think I could possibly love anyone that much, but you…" Her voice trailed off, her hand again wiping away tears. "I always said that I there was no way I would be one of those women who cries at her wedding, but I guess that's another thing I had wrong." She gave another shaky grin before continuing. "You reminded me of what love is, and that was no small feat. I love you, Seth, but somehow, those words seemed far too simple, so I made what was probably the _biggest_ mistake of this relationship, and asked Jake for some help figuring out what to say for a toast. Of all of the nonsensical ramblings he had, I figured that there was one thing that, as a psychiatrist, he would probably have some experience with. Hallie, please don't kill my brother for this, but his line was, 'Marriage means commitment. Of course, so does insanity.'" That earned some genuine laughter from the guests, and a mock glare from the Mrs. Dr. Sault to her husband, before Hannah raised her glass. "To my husband, because with you, being committed is the best thing I could imagine."


	5. Chapter 5

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 5**

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been reading and enjoying and reviewing and whatnot. I promise, we'll get to the actual point of the story soon :) Once we're into the case-type stuff, I'll start giving you some recaps, like I did with _Consequences_. _

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Ziva took a deep breath, and on the inhale smelled the unique mix of Tony's cologne and her shampoo and his laundry detergent that she would recognize anywhere as Tony, and smiled despite herself. "I saw that," he said teasingly, leaning his head down to her ear, the fingers of his hands dancing lightly on her lower back. "That was a smile. You're having a good time."

"Do not be ridiculous," she scoffed, leaning back slightly as they danced to look him in the eye, and couldn't help but smile again at the smirk on his face. Ironic; after all of his whining about having to go to the wedding, he definitely seemed to be enjoying himself. "I was plotting a way to make my escape."

He chuckled, holding her closer to him as they danced. "There's no way I'm letting you go."

She laughed in return, resting her head on his shoulder before he turned his head slightly to kiss her forehead. Truth be told, she _was_ having a good time at Hannah's wedding, despite the fact that she had lost the coin toss to determine which of them was the designated driver, leaving her sipping Coke while Tony drained his flask—with _her_ tequila—and threw back beers as if he was single-handedly trying to make sure the Saults got their money's worth on the open bar. She had gotten a chance to meet Seth Ostheimer and congratulate both him and Hannah, tentatively scheduled a bike ride with Dr. Emily Shin—who had broken her foot again and was hobbling around in another fracture boot—and had managed to sneak an extra slice of that cake, which was just as good as Jake Sault hinted it would be.

And despite how much Tony appeared to have been drinking, he was apparently reining it in, staying just on the side of being gentlemanly instead of belligerent. Things had been going really well between them for the last month or so, which meant it was about time for the pendulum to swing the other direction, and she started to sense that the apartment issue was going to be the straw that broke the horse's back and send them into one of the epic fights that left them screaming at each other at home and so strictly professional at work that McGee got nervous and Gibbs started muttering about breaking the rules and how he should have sent her back to Israel and him back to aircraft carrier somewhere two years before.

At least the sex didn't suffer. Whether it was angry sex, make-up sex, rainy-weekend-morning sex, the-Buckeyes-just-won-a-game sex, I-can't-believe-we're-still-alive-after-that-case sex, or any of the other thousands of reasons they had come up over the last two and a half years, it was all great sex.

She must have been smirking at the thought, because Tony's fingers began tapping on her back again before he leaned down to speak in her ear again. "You're smiling again."

"I was just thinking."

"About what?"

She smirked again before replying honestly. "Sex."

He blinked once before his eyebrows rose. "Okay, great party, we're done," he declared, pulling away but keeping their hands intertwined, tugging at her hand to leave the dance floor. "Time to go."

She laughed, keeping her feet planted. "Dance with me," she said in a seductive tone she knew he wouldn't say no to. She waited until their bodies were almost flush before speaking right into his ear, "Sex later."

"I'm taking that as a promise," he warned.

"Then it would probably be a good idea for you to stop drinking." He grumbled something unintelligible, making her laugh and him grin.

They continued dancing without speaking, leaving Ziva far too much time alone with her thoughts. She didn't know if it was the wedding or if it was _that_ wedding—Hannah's wedding, the wedding of the woman who was half of the couple of the case that brought her and Tony together in the first place—but it was causing her head to go places she didn't want it to go. As she said once, she was never a woman who imagined her own wedding, which was true—even as a young girl, she never played wedding games, and as she got older, she began to see it as impractical, and then impossible. But watching the ceremony, seeing the traditional celebrations that she remembered from the family weddings she attended growing up, she began to wonder.

Which was silly, especially considering that since Tony, like the rest of the non-Jewish male attendants of the wedding, removed his _kippah_ as soon as he left the chapel, the traditions that she just saw wouldn't happen anyway.

He had proposed once, and she said no, and for good reasons, which he acknowledged were good reasons. And while she knew he still had the ring, they hadn't talked about it since. Not that she could blame him; with dragging her feet about moving in together, she wasn't exactly setting up the theater for a repeat performance going well. Even though the truth of it was, if he did propose again, she would say yes.

They just needed to get out of DC, get away from the constant threat of her director terminating her position or sending her on a mission for which there was no good ending. Eight more months until the Bahrain position was open; less than that for many of the half-dozen other positions Vance was considering Tony for. And then…

She consciously pushed that thought aside, and was about to mention getting together with Jake and Hallie the following Saturday to watch the Ohio State game, when the sudden appearance of said Saults over Tony's shoulder beat her to it. The lieutenant met her gaze and nodded to Tony, prompting her to nudge him and nod in their direction. "Hey, DiNozzo, how do you feel about the whole state of Michigan?" Jake asked with a wide grin after he got Tony's attention.

"You can say no, Tony," Hallie jumped in before he got the chance to answer. "I can't, because I made the mistake of marrying this idiot, but you don't have the same restrictions."

Tony grinned at her before answering Jake's original question. "Don't give a damn about it," he replied, referencing a song that was unfortunately very familiar to Ziva.

"Good, let's go," Jake said, grabbing Tony's elbow and directing him toward the military jazz quartet providing the music.

"I'm so sorry, Ziva," Hallie said quickly, reluctantly following Tony and her husband toward the stage, where two of the Army doctors were also gathered.

After they finished the song they were playing, the piano player handed the microphone over to Jake, who took it with that wide grin again on his face. "After Seth slipped the band some bribe money to play a certain fight song of The School That Cannot Be Named, a few of us got together and decided to share with my brother-in-law just how we feel about his medical school." He nodded at the piano player, who began playing the familiar chords, and Ziva couldn't help but laugh as the five on stage, with no harmony whatsoever, began belting out the lyrics:

_We don't give a damn about the whole state of Michigan, we're from Ohio.  
We're from Ohio—O-H  
We're from Ohio—I-O  
We don't give a damn about the whole state of Michigan..._

She was still laughing a few minutes later, as a grinning Tony—and the other Ohio State alumni, with the exception of Hallie—accepted a shot from a laughing Seth Ostheimer before heading back in her direction. "You are an idiot," she informed him.

"You're just jealous because your college doesn't have any great rivalries."

"Probably because we focused more on academics than sports."

He shook his head sadly. "Now you're just making me pity you." She rolled her eyes and he grinned before pulling her toward him when she felt something vibrating, and she somehow knew that the enjoyable evening was about to come to an abrupt halt.

"Tony," she said. "Your pocket is ringing."

"Oh," he replied. "I think that's the side where I put your phone. It must be Gibbs." Sure enough, when he dug the offending phone out of his pocket, it was their boss' name on the display. It had taken him awhile, but the supervisory field agent had finally realized that when he wanted to get hold of them after hours, it was best to go through Ziva. She would always answer; with Tony, it depended on his mood and what he was doing.

"We are not on-call this weekend," Ziva said as a greeting. Not one to be bothered by someone cutting to the chase, Gibbs didn't even miss a beat.

"_We are now. Need you to get in. Pack a bag for the desert._"

Ziva frowned and wondered, as she sometimes did when Gibbs called at night, if he had been drinking. "The desert?" she repeated, shrugging her confusion in response to Tony's frown.

"_Bahrain_," Gibbs specified. "_Priority flight in an hour leaving from Andrews_."

"If it is Bahrain, is that not Stan Burley's jurisdiction?"

This time, there was a pause at the other end. "_Burley is the case_," Gibbs finally said. "_He was found murdered in his apartment an hour ago._"


	6. Chapter 6

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 6**

_A/N: I think I need to find a new hobby... I got all excited when I discovered a continuity problem in the NCIS timeline. Tony has previously said that his mother dressed him like a sailor until he was ten, and in the episode last night, he said his mother died when he was eight._

_With all this random trivia floating around in my head, it's amazing that there's enough room left for the stuff I need to function at work..._

_Okay, back to the point. I promised a recap, so here we go (it's a quick one): a whiny fifteen-year-old dependent witnessed the murder of NCIS Special Agent Stan Burley. Gibbs was notified about the death and is taking over the investigation, and just rallied the troops, pulling Tony and Ziva away from the wedding of Lieutenant Commander Seth Ostheimer and Lieutenant Hannah Sault._

_I told you it was a quick one._

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NCIS Special Agent Timothy McGee was fighting another yawn and debating the merits of another cup of coffee as he waited for the priority flight to Bahrain. On the pro side of the debate, he had been up for more than seventeen hours already, most of which was spent barely moving any muscles other than his arms as he sat at his typewriter, working on the still-unnamed Novel Four, and more coffee would mean he could continue working on it. Well, depending on what type of plane this priority flight was, of course. A Gulfstream, an uncommon but not unheard of possibility, would be a smooth enough ride to get some writing in. Strapped into the cargo section of a C-130, on the other hand, doing anything other sitting would be almost impossible. Although, with the rate he was writing anything with any sort of quality, the hours on the plane wouldn't make any difference. He wouldn't call what he was going through 'writer's block', but it definitely wasn't the inspired writing of _Deep Six_.

He was starting to think that being a best-selling novelist once was more of curse than a blessing. People kept expecting the same magic with each successive book, and they were falling further and further short each time. Not even Lyndi, whose job was as much stoking egos as promoting books, was very happy with how things were unfolding. _The story is getting old, Tim. There's nothing to look forward to anymore. Tommy and Lisa are already together, so there goes the drama of attraction. We know Tibbs is an ass; there are only so many ways you can write that. We need something new._

And that left him trying to find something new that wasn't cliché. He could kill off either Tommy or Lisa and create some angst that way, but that's been done. He could marry them off, but he couldn't see those characters getting married any more than he could ever see Tony and Ziva getting married. And the McGregor and Amy Sutton romance completely fizzled with the critics. That left Tibbs to develop as a character, and he just didn't know how to do that.

He had been working with Peter Kirkan—using _working_ in the loosest sense of the word—on what Gibbs was like before he became, well, Gibbs. He figured before Tibbs could move forward as a character, they had to move him _back_, to illustrate how he became the Tibbs the readers were first introduced to. But even that wasn't working currently out too well; Kirkan's wife Alyse, a Navy physician recently promoted to lieutenant commander, just returned from deployment in Afghanistan, and now Kirkan was nowhere to be found. Understandably so, after a twelve-month separation from his wife, during which their only physical contact was two weeks in Qatar, right after she spent a week being held hostage in a case that brought the reporter/novelist more publicity than he ever wanted. Lyndi Crenshaw, on the other hand, who breathed publicity the same way most people breathe oxygen, milked that for all it was worth. Kirkan confided to McGee a few weeks before that his fifth novel, which was originally scheduled for release in October, probably wouldn't hit shelves until January, because Lyndi was trying to draw either sympathy or suspense with claims that the finishing touches were put on hold due to the stress of Alyse's abduction.

Even if Kirkan wasn't currently incommunicado, it wasn't as if he had been a fountain of information about what Gibbs was like before Desert Storm, before Shannon and Kelly were murdered. He didn't know if being close-lipped about personal information was something drilled into Marines during basic training or if that was unique to scout snipers in reconnaissance platoons. Or maybe it was just those two men. Either way, it wasn't helping McGee's research to develop Tibbs' back story—which would be revealed by a case involving someone from Tibbs' past—as the emotionally silent investigator who had once been a loving family man before the violent murder of his wife and two children.

Maybe, once the readers begin to understand who Tibbs had been, McGee could introduce a romantic interest without confusing the hell out of audience. Maybe a much-younger military medical examiner with a few children and a past of her own… No, Gracy was too nice of a person to fictionalize her—and her late husband's torture and murder—like that.

Odd that he felt that way about an Army pathologist he barely knew, when he had no problems writing about his co-workers and friends. Of course, Sonja Gracy was always nice to him, which was usually more than he could say about Tony and Ziva.

"Where the hell are Ziva and DiNozzo?" McGee blinked at the sudden intrusion of Gibbs' angry—well, angrier than usual—voice in his tangential thoughts. He looked up at his boss to see him looking back down with an expectant look on his face.

"Uh, I don't know, Boss," he finally said, flinching at the 'you're completely useless' expression on Gibbs' face. After so many years on the MCRT, he knew all of Gibbs' expressions. No, that wasn't true. He hadn't seen much of happy-Gibbs, assuming such a creature actually existed.

He mentally added both 'gives me something to do' and 'gets me away from Gibbs' to the pro list of getting another cup of coffee from the pilot lounge.

Gibbs turned and walked away without another word, making McGee wonder if he was that annoyed with him, or if it was a silent acknowledgement of the fact that he was being unreasonable. He decided on the former; Gibbs didn't seem to care if he was being unreasonable.

He finally turned to the con side of the list, still trying to decide on that cup of coffee. Number one was, of course, that it would keep him awake for the flight, and if the plane was a bouncing C-130 in turbulence, sleeping would be the best way to survive the God-knows-how-long flight. He watched Gibbs flinch at a sip of the brew in the question and added a number two to the con list: it seemed to be a barely-palatable mix of coffee grounds and jet fuel.

He was about to give in and ask Gibbs what kind of plane he could expect for the priority flight when the door was suddenly opened by an arm in an ABU—_Air Base Uniform? Air Battle Uniform?_ he asked himself, trying to remember what the Air Force camouflage uniform was called. Neither of those sounded right, but when he couldn't come up with anything better, he made a mental note to ask Dr. Garcia, the cute Air Force physician he met during his last physical at the Navy Yard clinic, the next time he saw her. As someone who writes books that take place in military settings, he figured that was something he should know.

Regardless of the name of the uniform the technical sergeant was wearing, the entry of his arm only held McGee's interest for a few seconds, on account of the two people immediately following him. "Thank you," Ziva said politely to the sergeant as she walked by him into the already-small space. Tony, on the other hand, didn't bother saying anything. That could have had something to do with the fact that he appeared to be concentrating pretty hard on walking in a straight line.

"Wow," McGee said without thinking. "You guys are dressed up." Although Tony's suit was something he would wear to work, Ziva's dress was far from her usual cargo pants, and he realized after he spoke that, as it was an off-work weekend, they were probably out on a date or something similarly couple-ish.

"Yes," Ziva said simply. "We were at a wedding."

"On a Sunday? Oh," he said, answering his own question as his brain finally caught up to his mouth. "Hannah Sault's wedding."

"Not Sault anymore," DiNozzo pointed out absently, scanning the room for something. Ziva turned to him and frowned.

"She is changing her name?"

He shrugged. "I assume so. In that family, I'd be surprised if she didn't. Don't know if it was a joke or not, but Ostheimer gave her one of his uniform nametags, said it was for her to use while waiting for her own to arrive. Is there anywhere here we can change? There's no way I'm wrinkling this suit by wearing it on a plane to Bahrain."

"There's a latrine down the hall, sir," the tech sergeant piped up. "There's one for women, too, ma'am," he added with a nod toward Ziva. McGee had to bite the inside of his cheek to refrain from commenting that Ziva usually couldn't care less about the picture on the outside of the door when choosing a restroom.

He did comment about the fact that they were still dressed for the wedding, though. "Why didn't you change when you were home to pack?"

"Go-bags were already in the car and Ziva wouldn't stop," DiNozzo replied as he turned back out the door toward the head. Ziva just shrugged before following him out.

They returned—now in khakis and tee-shirts—before McGee had resolved the 'coffee or no coffee' debate and only seconds before the tech sergeant's walkie talkie crackled with the voice of the crew chief, informing them that the plane was ready for take-off. Keeping his fingers crossed for a Gulfstream, McGee slung his bag over his shoulder as he joined in the procession out to the tarmac.

Where an idling C-130 told him that he had no such luck. At least he hadn't opted for the coffee.

---

"I believe I was promised sex." DiNozzo's matter-of-fact statement, about an hour into the flight, got the attention of every enlisted member of the Air Force's special ops unit they hitched a ride with inside a six foot radius.

"Dude. Really?" one of them asked after a few seconds of stunned silence.

Ziva ignored him as she turned another page in the book she had in her go-bag. It hadn't been long after she began her Mossad career that she learned that long distance travel was boring, and paperback books were both light and compact. "I believe I was promised a weekend without work. Sometimes, plans change." She nodded in McGee's direction, where the junior field agent was strapped into his seat, his head rolled back and mouth hanging open as he slept. "Maybe you should pass the time with a nap." She finally looked up to see him fixing her with a look of disbelief, and just rolled her eyes before returning them to her book. "There will not being any visiting of the Mile High Clubroom on a troop transport."

"We don't mind, ma'am," the same airman same quickly. Both Tony and Ziva gave him a blank look of 'I'm not going to dignify that with a response' before turning back to each other.

Ziva immediately recognized what this was about, and it had nothing to do with having to postpone sex to fly to the other side of the world. Tony and Burley hadn't exactly been friends, but they had been colleagues, at times sharing cases and at others stories about working with Gibbs, and now he was dead, murdered in his apartment, and they had no idea why. She switched to Hebrew before speaking again. "We will find who did this, Tony," she said, her voice low but intense. He just clenched his jaw and looked away. She stifled a sigh and returned to her book, but interlaced her fingers with his. After a few minutes, she felt him squeeze her fingers lightly in response. About half an hour later, she heard his breaths slow and even, and when she glanced over at him, his eyes were closed, deep asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 7**

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NCIS Special Agent Todd Freiler rubbed his eyes tiredly with the heels of his hands before glancing up at the flight display screen for the third time in as many minutes, willing the plane he was tracking to fly faster. The sooner it arrived, the sooner he could go home and go to bed, and it had already been far too long since he had done that.

Not that he would be getting any sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was Stan Burley's body, sprawled out on his kitchen floor over a pool of his own congealed blood, and he shuddered before again checking the progress of the plane.

"Ten minutes, sir," the assistant air traffic controller said to his unasked question. The young sailor turned around to study the NCIS agent for a second. "You can wait down by the runway, sir."

"Thanks, Airman," Freiler replied with a nod as he stood.

"And sir… Sorry about your boss."

"Yeah," the NCIS agent muttered before leaving the room, "so am I."

The minutes ticked by like hours, but true to the air traffic controller's words, it was almost exactly ten minutes after his statement that the C-130 touched down at the end of the runway. It then took a couple more minutes to taxi to the space in front of the building Freiler just exited. He waited to walk forward until the Air Force special ops unit deplaned and headed for the barracks where they would be staying for an unknown period of time before being deployed to an unknown location.

He recognized Mossad Officer Ziva David from a few cases in the Middle East she worked with the team, but had to try to deduce the identities of the three men. Figuring that advanced age probably went with advanced position, he was guessing that the man with the gray hair was the legendary Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs; the only thing he had to distinguish Agents DiNozzo and McGee was the fact that one of the remaining men was following Officer David a little bit too closely to be strictly professional. He heard Burley and Kim discuss the relationship between DiNozzo and David enough times to guess that meant that the man in the red tee-shirt was probably DiNozzo.

"Special Agent Gibbs," he said, approaching the group. "Special Agent Todd Freiler. Thanks for coming."

Gibbs didn't waste any time with pleasantries or introductions. "Where can we drop our gear?"

"Uh, I reserved a couple of rooms at the base's Navy Gateway Inn and Suites," Freiler replied, pulling the two sets of cards out of his pocket. "I tried to get you at the Marriot, but—"

"This'll do," Gibbs interrupted, taking the cards.

"They only had two vacancies," Freiler continued. There was something about Gibbs' stare that made him nervous, and he had a tendency to babble when he was nervous, something that Stan had been working with him on. He felt the newly-familiar roll of nausea at the thought of his boss and swallowed it in favor of continuing babbling. "Uh, there'll be some more rooms available on Thursday, so I can get you another room then. Oh. Uh, unless you need two more rooms…" He trailed off, aware that his face was probably the same color as DiNozzo's shirt.

Seeming to know what he was implying, both Gibbs and McGee turned to DiNozzo and David, who just looked at each other, and all looked slightly amused. Well, as amused as one could look under the circumstances. "Don't waste the taxpayers' money. Ziva and I are fine sharing a room," DiNozzo said before a wide and very fake-looking grin spread over his face. "For the interest of saving the government money, of course." The other three members of the Navy Yard's MCRT just rolled their eyes and turned away.

"Where are we on the case?" Gibbs asked Freiler, apparently ready to get started. "Where's Tomblin?"

"Oh," Agent Freiler replied. "Uh, sir? It's 2300 local. I, uh, assumed you'd want to go to the hotel and get started in the morning—"

"Here now. Might as well get started," Gibbs interrupted. Freiler wondered if the supervisory agent was always like this, or if he just didn't like him. He opened his mouth to respond, but Officer David beat him to it.

"Agent Freiler is right," she said, giving him a quick glance that he figured was supposed to be supportive. "The best way to avoid jet lag is immerse one's self in the local time zone. We should sleep now. Besides, it is highly unlikely that anyone would be awake to answer any questions that would arrive." She directed her words to Agent Gibbs, and the two of them continued to stare at each other challengingly. Judging by the fact that neither DiNozzo nor Gibbs looked surprised by this, it wasn't an uncommon occurrence. In fact, DiNozzo muttered something under his breath that sounded a bit like 'arise.'

"Fine," Gibbs finally said, breaking off the impromptu staring contest. "We'll get started at zero-six tomorrow." He turned and headed for the building without another word, his three agents following. Once he remembered that he was their ride to the Gateway, Freiler hurried to catch up.

---

After a sixteen hour flight on the uncomfortable passenger seats of a C-130 used mainly for transporting special ops units around the globe, which came after an already long day of internet apartment searches and a wedding, Tony DiNozzo needed a shower.

The ride from the airstrip to the Gateway was silent, Todd Freiler apparently not knowing what he was supposed to say and none of Team Gibbs in a mood for talking. McGee wished them a good-night after they crossed through the lobby of the hotel, earning him a grunt from DiNozzo and a pleasant good-night from Ziva, and those were the last sounds either Tony or Ziva made as they climbed the stairs to their second-floor room and entered, but it was more a comfortable silence of two people who knew each others' routines than anything else.

As she always did an unfamiliar place, Ziva began wandering around, all but memorizing her new surroundings, her well-trained eyes rarely missing anything. She placed her bag on the bed before walking around it, checking underneath and looking in the drawers before moving into the living room. Tony, meanwhile, unceremoniously tossed his bag onto the bed and immediately moved toward the bathroom.

He had barely removed his shirt after arranging the little hotel bottles of shampoo and bars of soap for his shower when the door opened again, and before he could even open his mouth to ask Ziva what she was doing, it was otherwise occupied by the very soft lips of a certain Mossad liaison officer. "Ziva…" he half-protested as she broke the kiss and began working on the button of his khakis.

"I believe you were promised sex," she replied half-teasingly, not stopping in her actions.

"Ziva," he repeated, this time a little bit more forcefully as he took her hands in his to stop her. "You don't need—"

"I know, Tony," she interrupted. For a long minute, neither of them moved or so much as spoke, the rumble of the ceiling fan almost deafening in the moment. "I knew him too," Ziva finally said, her words so soft DiNozzo honestly couldn't figure how he heard them above that obnoxious fan, and he finally saw in her eyes what this was about. It wasn't just teasing promises of getting lucky after a wedding or fatigue after a flight to begin the case that they both knew would be hell for everyone involved. This was an affirmation that they, at least, were still alive and still there, together; a reminder that life was short and that there was no point in not taking opportunities when they were presented to them.

Not saying anything further, he released her hands to move his to her hips, spending barely half a second to look in her eyes before resuming the kiss, separating from her just long enough to pull her shirt over her head.

After sex and a shower in a tub just big enough for the both of them, they both seemed to realize just how tired they were, forgoing unpacking for simply pushing their bags off the lumpy and too-small full-sized bed. Ziva fell asleep almost immediately, curled up on her side to face the middle of the bed, her wet curls soaking the pillow under her head and her snores probably only a few decibels too quiet to wake the occupants of the room next door. Lying on his back next to her, Tony couldn't manage to get his thoughts to slow down to allow him any rest, which left him staring at the ceiling and listening to snoring more fitting to a sailor after a two-week bender than a very attractive Israeli woman.

Somewhere between watching the occasional slits of light across the ceiling from the headlights of the random car driving by and trying to figure out what the dry smell in the room was, his mind turned to the ironies of his life—how did a former college basketball player and all-around playboy end up in a cheap government hotel room on a Middle Eastern island with a woman he could honestly see himself spending the rest of his life with? Meanwhile, a man who was nicer and definitely smarter and probably better at his job was lying in a morgue refrigerator somewhere with a stab wound literally to the heart. Somehow, that didn't seem like the way it was supposed to go.

With a quiet sigh, he turned his head to the side to watch Ziva sleep, taking in her somewhat-uneven breaths, and simultaneously wincing and smiling at the snoring filling the small room. He had to fight the temptation to smooth aside an errant curl that had fallen over her face, knowing that the action would wake her, and there was no reason for both of them to show up at the NCIS field office exhausted. Instead, he returned his attention to the ceiling and began to recap their relationship in fast-forward, trying to figure out how they had gotten from her slouching provocatively in the bullpen while waiting for Gibbs to arrive so she could try to talk him into not killing her brother, to the point where he was more concerned with her sleep than him getting more action.

And then he found himself wondering what would happen next. Burley was dead; did that mean that Vance would soon be tapping him on the shoulder and asking him to take his place? Would he and Ziva soon be looking for an apartment in Bahrain, instead of DC? Why did that feel much more permanent and intimidating than the alternative?

Did he want this job this way?

By the time the alarm on Ziva's phone went off at 0400, he still hadn't figured the answers to any of his questions, and still hadn't fallen asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 8**

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Time zones weren't Gibbs' favorite things to calculate. Fortunately for him, he didn't care enough about not waking people up to put too much thought into it.

The first number he called right after his alarm went off in the morning rang three times before stopping abruptly. He frowned and glanced at the phone; still had a signal, so he couldn't blame that one on the international SIM cards the tech people at NCIS handed out these days instead of satellite phones. Just when he was about to call back, his phone vibrated for a short burst—a text message.

_Hold on_

Sure enough, less than thirty seconds had passed between the message and the ringing of his phone. "You know I don't do texts, Abs," he said as a greeting.

_"I know that, Gibbs,"_ Abby Sciuto replied patiently. _"But I'm at this party, and the music is really loud, so if I had answered the phone when you called, you wouldn't have been able to hear me. And I wouldn't have been able to hear you, either. Actually, when you called, it's lucky that I was holding my phone, 'cause—"_

"Abby," he interrupted. Judging by the music he still heard in the background, despite the fact that she was now probably standing outside, he figured she had a point about how loud the _inside_ had been. "Gonna need you to do some work."

_"Long distance lab work, huh? Sounds like fun."_ As if just remembering what case Gibbs and the rest of the MCRT flew across the world to investigate, her tone sobered significantly. _"Oh. You want me to do the forensics on Stan's…"_ her voice trailed off, as if she couldn't bring herself to say 'death' or 'murder'. For someone who dealt with death—often violent death—on a daily basis, she was rather uncomfortable talking about it when it was related to people she knew.

"Lab here already did a lot," he said. Knowing that she wouldn't be satisfied unless she saw things herself, he continued, "Gonna have McGee email you their report, then I'm shipping all the evidence to you."

_"Okay,"_ she replied simply. She took a deep breath, and Gibbs was sure she was about launch into a long monologue about… something. Instead, she said, _"I know you guys usually do the crime scene stuff, but I'm going to need all the crime scene pictures as well. Is Ducky doing the autopsy?"_

"I'll have McGee send you the pictures," Gibbs promised. "Autopsy's already been done by the Armed Forces Medical Examiner in Germany."

_"You let someone other than Ducky do the autopsy?"_ Abby asked in disbelief. _"Gibbs! This is Stan we're talking about! I can't believe you let just anyone—"_

"I'll ask Gracy to check into who did it." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he grimaced. He didn't like mixing his personal life with his professional—there was a reason why no one at NCIS knew about Shannon and Kelly for years, after all—and this was treading dangerously close to violating that rule. Hell, this was far beyond 'treading'. "Ducky'll get a report to review."

_"Make sure Gracy gets it, too,"_ Abby said, surprising him. _"Stabbing is her specialty."_ As if realizing how that sounded, she was quick to add, _"Well, not like her specialty like she's good at stabbing people, but like—"_

"I knew what you meant," he cut her off. After a beat of silence, he asked, "Anything else?"

_"No, I think that'll be it,"_ she replied. _"Do you think it'll be easier if I sync my internal clock to Bahrain time, so you guys can always get a hold of me when you want? I can do that, you know. It could be kinda fun, working eight hours off the rest of the office. Actually, I think I've done that before."_

Gibbs smiled slightly at that; with the hours she worked, she was almost always in the lab anyway. And it wasn't as if her showing up eight hours early would worry the night security guards at the base; they already thought she just on the other side of 'eccentric'. "Do what you need to do, Abs. Keep a look out for the email from McGee. Give us a call when you get through things."

_"Will do. And Gibbs? You're going to get this guy, right?"_

"When have I ever let you down, Abby?" he asked as an answer before hanging up the phone. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that he had enough time for another call before it was time to get to the office, and he scrolled through his contacts on the phone before finding the number he was looking for.

_"This is Dr. Gracy."_ Dr. Sonja Gracy, a forensic pathologist with the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology and major in the Army, answered the phone with a familiar professional and slightly distracted tone.

"You working?" Gibbs asked with a frown, looking down at his watch and again trying to figure out what time it was in DC. The fact that Abby had been at a party was enough to tell him that it was after normal business hours, which usually meant Gracy was home with her kids.

_"I'm at a scene. OSI called me in,"_ she replied, referring to NCIS' Air Force counterpart, the Office of Special Investigation. She paused for a long second before asking, _"What time is it in Bahrain?"_

"Almost 0530," he replied. If Abby was right about the eight hours, that would make it 2130 back in DC; pretty early for the forensic scientist to be out partying somewhere that loud. Then again, Abby's friends didn't always keep typical schedules. "You busy?"

_"You mean aside from the dead body?"_ she asked, amused. _"What do you need?"_

"Need to find out who did the autopsy on Stan Burley," he replied. "See if you can get copies of the report for you and Ducky."

_"Sure,"_ she agreed. _"You happen to know where it was done?"_

"Think Vance said Germany."

_"Landstuhl or Heidelberg?"_

"No idea."

She chuckled into the phone. _"I'll look into it. Have someone send me an email to remind me to check. I would ask you to do it, but I know how you are with email."_ He rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything to counter her words. Truth was, Gracy's seven-year-old son was better with computers than he was. Of course, he was pretty sure Nate was better with computers than Gracy herself, so that probably wasn't saying much. _"Coming back in a few days?"_ she asked when he didn't say anything else.

"Hope it doesn't take any longer than that."

_"Yeah,"_ was all she said in response. They both built their lives around crime; she knew how it was. He hoped she knew that he wasn't leaving Bahrain until he had Burley's murderer in custody. Or dead. Either option worked for him. _"I'll let you know when I get a chance to review the autopsy report,"_ she said, her tone again business-like, and he remembered that she was probably standing next to the body of a murdered airman.

"Appreciate it," he said, and hung up the phone without saying anything further. He could picture her standing there in her AFME coveralls, her hair braided and hanging down her back, holding her phone with a puzzled expression until realizing that he wasn't there, and he smirked slightly at the image.

And as quickly as it came, the amused expression was gone from his face as he stood at the sight of DiNozzo and Ziva exiting the hotel and coming toward him. A few seconds later, McGee followed them out, and right on cue, Agent Freiler pulled up to take them to the office.

It was time to get started.

---

When Freiler arrived at the office with Gibbs and the team, Special Agent Kim Tomblin was already at her desk, trying to avoid looking to her left, where she knew she would see all of Stan's things still sitting exactly where they should be on his desk—which meant in a system of so-call 'organized chaos' that nobody but Stan could ever understand.

She stood quickly at the sound of the door opening, using both hands to smooth back her pony-tailed hair. "Hey, Freiler," she said, managing a weak smile as the team's junior field agent entered the room. "Gibbs," she continued with a nod. His bright blue eyes met hers in an expression that, even after more than three months of working with the man, she couldn't begin to interpret, but there was an intensity there that made her face flush involuntarily.

"Kim." She tore her eyes from Gibbs' gaze to the space right behind his shoulder, where Tim McGee was wearing a surprised expression, obviously having forgotten that she had been stationed in Bahrain for two years now, and the smile that ghosted her lips, while small, was genuine.

"Hi, McGee." The MCRT's junior field agent—temporarily promoted to senior field agent while she and Sopko had been filling in for DiNozzo and Officer David—had been a lifesaver to her those months. As much as she loved her job, Gibbs was, well, Gibbs, and having a buffer and someone who was used to the abuse went a long way in making it manageable. "How was your flight?"

"Long," was his reply, and she couldn't help but chuckle. "And both Tony and Ziva snore," he added.

"You're not exactly a dainty sleeper, either, McGrumble," DiNozzo snapped. He looked a little beyond exhausted, a feeling Tomblin could definitely relate to, especially over the last few days. She learned the easy way the night before that the Ambien that was prescribed to her to allow for some sleep amidst the noise of the fighter jets early in her agent afloat days—which was now longer ago than she cared to contemplate—was still good. It was the only thing that let her get any sleep since she arrived at Stan's apartment to pick him up for work to find…

She shuddered involuntarily at the thought, her eyes drifting over to her late boss' desk against her will. When she managed to tear her eyes away, her gaze again fell on Gibbs, who was again giving her that intense look she didn't want to even to try to interpret. Flushing again, she dropped her gaze to the top of her desk.

"Where can we work?" Gibbs finally asked, and she blinked in surprise at the question and the realization that it was directed at her.

"Oh," she said. "Umm…" Her voice trailed off as she scanned their office, suddenly seeming incredibly small. It was probably the same size as the bullpen back at Headquarters, but the fact that it was enclosed made it seem tiny, as if they could barely find a way to maneuver around the three desks. Without even realizing she was doing it, she pulled at her hair tie, releasing her ponytail as she thought about the question, only to gather it back up again, a tic Stan and Freiler never failed to tease her about. "What about the conference room?" she asked, directing the question at Freiler. "We can requisition a few computers from IT and set them up there."

"Yeah, that should work," the junior agent agreed with a nod. He turned to Gibbs and tilted his head to the side. "It's the next room over," he explained unnecessarily as he led the way. McGee, DiNozzo, and David followed immediately without comment, but Gibbs turned back to Tomblin with that same expression. Forcing herself not to flinch, she met his gaze head-on, and it wasn't until he finally turned to follow his team that she realized that she had been holding her breath. With a deep sigh, she collapsed back into her chair, her eyes again involuntarily falling on Stan's desk, and she knew that no matter what Gibbs found in his investigation, nothing would ever be the same again.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 9**

_A/N: Okay, time for a recap (even though not much has happened yet). Special Agent Stan Burley was murdered in his Bahrain apartment, and the case was given to Gibbs and the rest of the MCRT, which required Tony and Ziva to be pulled away from Lt. Hannah Sault's wedding. They have since arrived in Bahrain, where Special Agents Kim Tomblin and Todd Freiler have started working the case, without any progress. Gibbs has enlisted the help of both Abby Sciuto and Dr. Sonja Gracy, and by extension Ducky, and is now ready to completely take over._

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**

Despite the fact that they all knew that it would be at least an hour until IT came by with the computers—Navy Yard or NSA Bahrain, NCIS IT had the same SOPs, which meant that they were never in a hurry to do anything—Gibbs was ready to get started. "Where are we with the case?" he asked, pulling Agent Freiler aside into the hallway before the younger man had the opportunity to say anything.

The younger man blinked, but only delayed a few seconds. "Kim and I didn't work the scene," he said. "Kim…" His voice trailed off before he cleared his throat. "Kim and Stan live in adjacent buildings, they usually drive in together. She went to go get him when he wasn't answering his phone, and she immediately called me and the MPs. Technically, since the apartments aren't on the base, it should have been the city police, but…"

"Who worked the scene?" Gibbs asked when Freiler trailed off.

"Chad Dunham is up from Africa," the junior agent said. "He was supposed to be meeting with Stan about an investigation he was working on with Mossad, one of those terrorist training camps that crop of everywhere." He cleared his throat again. "I know that, as a Middle East subordinate field agent, Dunham technically works—worked—for Stan, but…"

"Dunham's a good agent," Gibbs said. He had never worked directly with the anti-terrorism specialist, but he had seen a few of his reports, and knew that he knew what he was doing. Well, knew what he was doing when chasing Islamic extremists; he didn't know if Dunham had worked a crime scene or had any instructions in forensics since FLETC. He would have preferred to have Tomblin, who majored in forensic science and had extensive crime scene experience, gather the evidence, but he knew that having a direct subordinate do the work would call all of the evidence into question and would be a prosecutor's worst nightmare. Assuming Gibbs didn't just shoot the bastard on the spot.

"Actually, the MPs worked the scene," Freiler informed him. "Dunham supervised for chain of custody reasons, in order to keep it an NCIS case. Kim stayed at the scene until he arrived. She said she didn't touch anything, but her prints are going to be all over that place. We've all been to each other's places." He cleared his throat again and looked away from Gibbs. "Um, Dunham's still in town, staying at the Gateway. Reports have been going through him."

"Gonna need those reports."

Freiler nodded. "I figured that. Dunham should be in, in a couple of hours. I told him to bring everything he has on Stan's case." He took another deep breath, running his hand through his thinning hair that wasn't thinning nearly so much before he took this job. "Um, Kim's been pulling our active cases, see if anything jumps out as far as anyone wanting to… hurt Stan. I'm doing the same with old cases."

"Personal life?"

He gave a snort that was barely concealed laughter. "Sorry. If Stan had a personal life, he did a great job hiding it. Maybe Kim knows something. I have a family, but they're both single, they hang out together more. All I know is that whenever my wife and I have people over for a barbeque or something, he always shows up alone." He shrugged, giving another apologetic expression.

"Get DiNozzo and McGee what you have from the case files," Gibbs ordered, not even bothering with his usual instructions not to apologize. "Ziva and I will talk to Dunham and Tomblin."

"Sure," Freiler agreed, but wondered why he wasted his breath. Gibbs had already walked away.

---

While IT was setting up the computers—which was taking rather long, considering that they were just laptops that already had all the software and security features required and were already connected to the NCIS network—and Gibbs had wandered off somewhere after talking to Freiler, DiNozzo and Ziva left to try to track down the crime scene photos and forensic evidence from the case, which left McGee him alone in the conference room, wondering what he should be working on.

_You're a good agent_, he reminded himself, _twice promoted to senior field agent. You don't need Gibbs to tell you what needs to be done next_.

He knew computers, and Agent Burley had one sitting on his desk one room away.

McGee felt a little bad interrupting Kim Tomblin again, especially considering she looked like she was doing all she could to just keep it together, but if Gibbs found out he wasn't doing his work because he felt bad for a former coworker, he'd never hear the end of it. Or he'd be transferred to a garbage barge somewhere, which, he had to admit, was probably the most likely of the two. And not necessarily the worst.

He rapped his knuckles lightly against the open office door, visibly surprising Tomblin, who nearly jumped out of her chair as her head jerked up. "Oh, hey, McGee," she said once she recovered, her voice thick, and he felt a surge of sympathy. He wondered how he'd be doing in that situation, and suddenly remembered the haze he seemed to be in while tracking down Ari Haswari after Kate was murdered.

Kim wiped at her almond-shaped dark eyes with the heels of her hands. "Sorry," she said, managing a weak smile. "I'm not doing a very good job holding it together, am I? Good thing I don't wear mascara." She glanced over at what must have been Burley's desk and shuddered. "God," she muttered. "I was a company commander. It's definitely not the first time people I've known have died, but…"

"It's different when you aren't in the middle of a war," he offered lamely, aware that he honestly had no idea how to compare being a Marine captain to being an NCIS field agent. As if knowing what he was thinking, she offered him a weak smile, appreciating the effort. "I'm going to need Burley's computer," he said, breaking the silence that had fallen over them.

She glanced to the desk at her left, this time not looking away as she again pulled her hair band from her hair, shaking out her ponytail before gathering it back up. He remembered her doing that a few times when they were working together, but never gave it much thought. He wondered if it was something she did to keep her hands busy while she was thinking. "Yeah," she finally said, her voice low. She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, her voice was much stronger, almost back to what he remembered. "He has the files of all of our active cases on there. I've been going through some of them, seeing if anything jumps out, but so far…" Her voice trailed off as she shrugged her shoulders, again slipping into the flailing woman who didn't remotely resemble the one he worked with two years before. "I know. I'm not being much help, am I?"

"It's hard when it's someone you know," he replied, again remembering investigating Kate's death. It was different then, he knew that—their enemy had a face, and they knew that he wouldn't stop until he had made it through the entire team. So far, Burley's murderer had no name, no face, no motive.

Giving Kim another tight smile, he crossed the room to Burley's desk, standing in front of the computer for a minute, trying to figure out how to proceed. He felt bad sitting in Burley's chair in front of Kim, but moving a chair aside to stand and stoop over the desk would look pretty ridiculous.

But Kim Tomblin, despite being absolutely tiny, was a very well trained former Marine in a fragile state of mind, and the thought of how many ways she could hurt him overwhelmed his desire to not look ridiculous.

Actually, he didn't have to worry about either. When he tapped a few keys on the keyboard, he realized that Burley had shut his computer off the last time he left the office before he was killed. He shrugged slightly and bent down, kneeling on the floor to begin unplugging the tower to move it into the conference room that would be his home until they arrested Burley's murderer.

He was just straightening again, the computer tower in his arms, when Ziva entered the office, wearing one of her 'I'm waiting for all bystanders to be gone before I start speaking' expressions, the one where she keeps her features in something non-threatening enough, but her eyes fall on anything except the person she needed to speak to. Usually when McGee saw that look on her face, it was his cue to make excuses to visit Abby's lab, or the sub-basement, or MTAC, or the men's room, in order to leave her and Tony relatively alone, but Tony wasn't around, which meant that she probably needed to talk to him about something without Kim hearing.

And then she turned toward him before giving the briefest of smiles, her lips barely turning upwards, and he realized that, once again, it wasn't him she needed to have that private conversation with. "Tim," she said with a nod. The use of his first name was another cue for him to get lost.

"Hey, Ziva," he replied, shrugging his shoulders slightly to indicate the computer he was holding in his arms. "I'm seeing if there's anything on Burley's computer that jumps out."

"That is a good idea," she agreed pleasantly before her eyes finally fell on Kim. Able to pick up on some hints, McGee closed the door behind him.

Kim Tomblin eyed Ziva David warily, suddenly feeling even more exhausted, despite the eight hours of drug-induced sleep she got the night before. In the course of two days, she had lost her boss—her _friend_—had her office taken over by her _old_ boss, and was now facing interrogation by a Mossad officer. At this rate, she'd be facing apocalypse by the end of the week. "Just get it over with," she sighed.

"Get it over with?" Ziva asked innocently. Tomblin just rolled her eyes as she gestured toward Freiler's chair. Burley's was closer and with the way they had their computer monitors arranged, had a clearer line of sight, but she wasn't ready to invite anyone else to sit in that chair just yet.

Never mind that Vance would probably make DiNozzo the SAC in that office before the case was solved.

"I know Gibbs sent you in here in question me about…something. What I saw when I found Burley or his personal life or who would want him dead or…something." She rolled her eyes slightly. "The problem with interviewing cops is that we know we're being interviewed. Gibbs sent you because we've worked together before and therefore I'm more likely to open up to you. He could have sent McGee for the same reason, but McGee doesn't strike me as the type who would be good at questioning people he knew."

Ziva smiled slightly at that. "I think McGee would surprise you," she said simply as she took a seat at Freiler's desk, angling the computer monitor to have a better view of Tomblin. She leaned back in the chair—which was, surprisingly enough, more comfortable than her own—and raised her eyebrows. "If you know what I am going to ask, why should I ask it?"

Tomblin smiled slightly at that. "Stan and I usually drive into work together," she began. "Our buildings are right next to each other, up by the beach. Nice neighborhood, by the way. We take turns driving, and this week was my week." She looked sad for a moment before getting back to what she was saying. "Freiler's Mormon, so he doesn't work on Sundays unless it's an emergency. We didn't have any new leads on any of our big cases, so Stan told me not to bother coming in, either. I don't know if he came to the office or not, but we agreed that we were going to get an early start on Monday. He was supposed to come over at 0530 so we could ride in together. He's usually very prompt—actually, he's usually early—so I started calling right away when he didn't show. He didn't answer the phone or call back, so I headed over to his place a few minutes before zero-six."

"You let yourself into his apartment?"

Tomblin nodded. "I have a key, and he obviously didn't answer when I knocked." She pressed her lips together and looked away before continuing. "He was sprawled out on his kitchen floor," she said simply. "I'm sure you'll be seeing the crime scene photos at some point."

"Yes," Ziva confirmed with a nod. "Do you have any theories?"

"I've been asking myself that since I found him," Tomblin replied, her voice tight and annoyed and angry. "That is _all_ I've been asking myself, all I could _think_ about, since I found him. Do you honestly think I'd be sitting here instead of going after the bastard, if I had the _slightest_ idea where to look?" Her dark eyes became even more dark and intense. "If someone killed DiNozzo, and you had any theories about who did it, would you be sitting around your office, flipping through case files, or would you be out there, kicking some asses?"


	10. Chapter 10

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 10**

_A/N: Thanks, everyone, for reading and reviewing (and yes, I do know that you're reading... there's a really nice function on FFN that allows me to stalk the collective you). I'm glad that you're enjoying the story, and I hope you continue to do so._

_For everyone who has submitted theories as to what's going on... If you want me to tell you if you're right or wrong, let me know. If you want to keep guessing, that's fine, too. My default is to say nothing in response to theories unless you specifically tell me you want to know. _

_Okay, enough for now. Back to solving crime._

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DiNozzo felt like he was dropped in the middle of the ocean and told to swim home, and nobody bothered to tell him which direction 'home' was.

"I hate coming into a case after it started," he grumbled, trying to figure out where to begin. Usually, it was simple; it started with Gibbs getting a phone call, and then there would be some sort of argument in the vehicle which would stop as soon as they arrived at the crime scene. DiNozzo would take pictures and make jokes, McGee would measure things and awkwardly attempt to sketch as he rolled his eyes at Tony, Ziva would gather evidence and attempt to spare McGee from being mocked by Tony by teasingly asking for clarification on pop culture references that he knew that she already understood. Gibbs would take one look at the scene, talk to one person who stumbled across it, and somehow arrive at all the same conclusions as his team one step before they did.

Coming into a case where the scene had already been processed and cleared, the body had been shipped to Germany to be autopsied by someone other than Ducky, and the evidence had already been tested by someone other than Abby left DiNozzo feeling like an outsider on a case that supposedly belonged to the team he was on.

Dunham, Tomblin, and Freiler had done what they could, of course, but it seemed that without Burley there to provide direction, or just be the glue that held things together, everything they had done seemed hopelessly jumbled and disjointed and would have to be repeated anyway. Kim had done little more than flip through case files, not even leaving any notes as to why she excluded some cases and not others; he doubted Freiler had even gotten that far with any of their old cases. And Dunham's 'notes' were nothing more than an encrypted file on the shared drive, containing crime scene pictures and the results of the tests run by the forensics lab.

"That's it," DiNozzo exclaimed abruptly, stopping everyone, even Gibbs, in mid-sentence to turn to stare at him, wondering about his abrupt outburst. Gibbs' expression didn't change, McGee looked slightly resigned, Ziva exasperated, and Chad Dunham, from where he had planted himself at the corner of the conference room table an hour before, just looked confused. "Get Tomblin and Freiler. Campfire."

"It's not your case, Tony," McGee pointed out, his eyes again on the screen of the computer in front of him.

"You got a better idea, McGoo?" DiNozzo snapped. "Because I, for one, didn't get enough sleep last night to reinvent the wheel."

"Not everyone likes sitting around in a circle as much as you do," McGee said mildly. At some point during this exchange, Gibbs had quietly slipped out of the room without anyone noticing—until they heard what was definitely their boss' voice give a 'Hey' in the next room. A few seconds later, he reappeared in the doorway, with Kim Tomblin and Todd Freiler in tow.

"Sit," Gibbs ordered, gesturing vaguely to the empty chairs around the table. "Campfire."

"Sir?" Agent Freiler asked, genuinely confused about what was going on.

"DiNozzo's thing," was all Gibbs gave in reply as he returned to his seat, turning to his senior field agent with an expectant look on his face.

"Right," DiNozzo said after a minute's pause, clearing his throat. "So it's this thing I came up with when I was team leader—"

"We all sit around in a circle and say what we've been working on. It's not that difficult of a concept," McGee said dryly.

"You want to start us off, McGrumble?" Tony snapped, more harshly than he anticipated, but once the words were out of his mouth, he found he didn't care. He had a completely sleepless night after a sixteen-hour flight in the back of a C-130 to investigate the murder of a man he worked with and considered a friend; Bitter-And-Cynical Tony was going to be taking the place of Fun Tony for awhile.

"Tony," Ziva said softly, resting her hand on his thigh, and just like that, he felt his anger and frustration melt away.

He had once made a joke about Jedi mind tricks, and she had just laughed and quirked an eyebrow but didn't deny it. He knew that, for all of her Mossad training, it couldn't have included mind control, but sometimes he had to wonder.

That didn't mean he was going to apologize to the McGoo, though.

"Dunham," he barked, getting back to the campfire and away from any thoughts of putting ink in McGee's coffee or supergluing him to, well, anything. "Walk us through the scene and the evidence."

"Okay, but I'm going to put in the caveat that before Monday, the last scene I worked was when I was a probie," the ruggedly blond special agent warned. "Agent Tomblin was supervising the scene when I arrived—"

"We can cut to anything relevant," Gibbs said dryly. Dunham nodded.

"There was no sign of forced entry," he began. "Nothing on the door or the windows. There wasn't anything missing—at least, nothing obviously missing—from the apartment, and he was still wearing his watch and still had his wallet, so burglary was probably not the objective. The lab's still running some of the fingerprints, but last I heard, the only prints they've ID'd so far have been Burley's and Tomblin's. The MPs collected his knives for comparison, but none of them match his wound. As far as that wound, the medical examiner from Heidelberg confirmed that COD was a single stab to the heart. That's about all the forensic evidence we got."

At the mention of the medical examiner, the three junior members of the MCRT all turned and faced Gibbs, who couldn't help but notice. "Already asked Gracy to look through the report," he said when Dunham finished speaking. The other three around the table frowned.

"Gracy?" Tomblin finally asked.

"Boss is sleeping with the Army's expert in knife wounds," DiNozzo explained before Gibbs got the opportunity to say anything. "Not that that's anyone's business," he added quickly at the look on Gibbs' face. "So we got a guy who can use a knife without leaving fingerprints and Burley invited into his home. Any leads on _who_? Tomblin?"

"I've been going through our open cases," Tomblin said automatically, tucking imaginary strands of hair behind her ears. "As well as the ones at our subordinate offices that we were peripherally involved in." She smiled thinly in Dunham's direction. "We have the standard smattering of minors—well, standard for us; we don't exactly have the caseload to have separate teams for majors and minors—mostly stolen digital cameras from the NEX and petty officers beating on each other at the bars. Between us and the other offices, we have four open majors. McGee, do you mind?" she asked, gesturing at the laptop. He slid it over without comment, and she logged onto her account. "Okay, first case. For about six months, we've been working on a leak from the Naval Intelligence side of the house. Based on the contents that have been leaked, we had a few suspects, but couldn't get anything to stick on them. One has since been transferred to an aircraft carrier, but the leak has continued, so it probably wasn't him. As far as the others, nothing suspicious in any of their backgrounds, no unexplained deposits in their bank accounts… nothing."

"McGee," Gibbs said simply.

"I'll look into it, Boss," the junior field agent said with a nod.

Tomblin nodded slightly as well. "Number two. Three-year-old boy, father is a PO2 stationed in Cairo, mother is Egyptian. Never married."

"'Nuff said," DiNozzo muttered under his breath. He looked up to see several raised eyebrows around the table. "Arab country, kid born out of wedlock…" His voice trailed off at the blank expressions. "Shutting up. Sorry, Tomblin."

"Actually, DiNozzo's probably right. Parents had an unofficial visitation schedule. Dad went to pick up kid, no one was home, mom and her family refuse to say anything. The kid's registered as a dependent, but since the father doesn't officially have any sort of custody and the mother's not military or a dependent, we can't force her to cooperate."

"How did the petty officer feel about that?" Gibbs asked.

"Not happy," Tomblin replied. "To put it mildly. Special Agent Amin at the Cairo office is on the case; I don't think the father knows anything about how Burley would have been involved."

"DiNozzo'll look into it."

"On it, Boss," the senior field agent said promptly. "And behind door number three?"

"An exercise in frustration," Tomblin said with a sigh, again tucking an imaginary lock of hair behind her ear as she brought up another case file on the computer. "Commander Richard Templeton here at NSA Bahrain. He's rather slimy, and that refers to both his personality and the fact that we can't get anything to stick on him. Enlisted females are coming out of the woodwork with sexual harassment complaints, a few saying that he took it beyond crude jokes and blatant leers. When the complaints started piling up, the chain of command opened an official investigation and involved the MPs; it got bumped to us when one of the female petty officers in question stated that he was exchanging sexual favors for good evaluations." She gave another frustrated sigh and shrugged a shoulder. "Problem is, there's no physical evidence, so it's all he-said, she-said, and he's smart enough about it that there's no pattern as far as good FitReps he's given and the women making the complaints. It's too bad he's not a submariner—we'd recommend that the Navy transfer him underwater somewhere, where there aren't any women around for him to harass, and he's embarrassing enough for his chain of command that they'd probably do it. But he's surface warfare, and moving him from the NSA to an aircraft carrier would actually increase his number of potential targets." She pressed her lips together and shook her head slightly. "But for as much as we came back to trying to get him to confess to anything, he knows we don't have anything to actually charge him with. He was arrogant to us, not homicidal."

"I'll talk with him," Gibbs promised. Tomblin smiled slightly, remembering watching him in interrogation when she was on the team. If anyone could get him to confess to being sleazy, it would be him.

"And I'll let Dunham present the last one, because it's actually the reason why he's here," she said, gesturing over to the field agent.

"Well, Ziva knows this one, too. We've been working on it together for the last few months," he said, causing heads to turn toward the Mossad liaison.

"Really?" DiNozzo asked dryly. Ziva shot him an annoyed look before blatantly turning away from him to face Gibbs.

"About seven months ago, a Marine lieutenant went UA from his post as an MP at Camp Arifjan in Kuwait," Ziva began, "which was what originally got the attention of NCIS. Two months later, Mossad operatives came across a training facility in Yemen, where they believe one of the instructors is American, which was why the Mossad operatives involved read me into the case. It is believed that the UA Marine and the instructor are the same person, Second Lieutenant Jeremiah Hoskins."

"They're stepping up activity," Chad Dunham said, taking over, "which was why I came to brief Burley. I think they have _something_ planned, but I have no idea what. We need authorization to move on this before we have another Christmas Bomber or something worse on our hands."

"But why would someone come after Burley for that?" McGee asked with a frown. "I mean, there are a lot more people more directly involved. Unless..." His voice trailed off, wondering if what he was thinking made any sense at all.

"Lieutenant Hoskins was an MP officer," Ziva answered before Dunham had the opportunity. "He had worked with NCIS in the past in that capacity and understands the organization."

"And he also knows that, with the United States occupied with Iraq and Afghanistan, that there isn't as much attention given to the Horn of Africa as there should be," Dunham jumped in.

"And distracting NCIS by investigating the death of a senior special agent would take away the little bit of attention we're giving it," DiNozzo theorized. McGee's eyes widened slightly; that was actually exactly what he was thinking, and to prove that he and DiNozzo weren't out there being completely wrong together, both Ziva and Dunham nodded. "But why would Burley open his door to a known mercenary or traitor or whatever Hoskins is?"

"If a Marine lieutenant in uniform knocked on your door, would you question it?" Ziva asked, knowing the answer. "Burley was only peripherally involved. He may not have seen many pictures of Lt. Hoskins and would not have recognized him out of context. But in his position, his death could be distracting enough to have dire consequences."

"Ziva, work with your Mossad colleagues on the Yemen angle," Gibbs ordered. "Figure out everywhere Hoskins has been since he went UA, and then get him. Or kill him. I don't care which."


	11. Chapter 11

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 11**

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Special Agent Freiler didn't have much to add to the campfire, as old cases didn't tend to give the NCIS Bahrain—or any other overseas offices—any problems. Back in the States, criminals tended to go to prison or the brig, occasionally coming back for vengeance after their sentences were up. Overseas, they were shipped back home to be incarcerated, and then stayed in the continental United States after release. It would have to be an unusually motivated perp to make his way back to the Middle East in order to go after the investigator who put him behind bars in the first place, and unlike Gibbs, Burley didn't seem to piss criminals off enough to give them that much motivation.

After DiNozzo declared the campfire over, Gibbs sent Tomblin and Freiler back to their office to continue working on their open cases. McGee frowned at that, until Gibbs reminded him that they were there to work Burley's case, not to take over the function of the Bahrain field office. Although no one was saying it, everyone was sure that Tony would be given Burley's job soon, but until Director Vance actually gave the word, he was still Gibbs' senior field agent, and his job was still to do what Gibbs ordered. Kim Tomblin, as the senior ranking field agent assigned to the Bahrain, was the temporary Special Agent in Charge until something final was declared.

"McGee," Gibbs barked, making the junior agent look up quickly in alarm. "Need you to forward the evidence reports to Abby, and send Gracy an email reminding her to look into Stan's autopsy report."

"Uh, sure, Boss," McGee said tentatively. "But don't you want to be the one…" His voice trailed off at the look on Gibbs' face. "Or I can just do what you tell me to do," he said quickly.

"Good idea, Elf Lord," Gibbs replied dryly before making his way out of the conference room without any further explanations or instructions.

"Where is he—," McGee began to ask before DiNozzo cut him off.

"Intimidating someone down in the lab to ship the forensic evidence to Abby," the senior field agent replied, not looking up from the case report he was studying on the laptop, and silence again fell over the conference room.

"I am going to go upstairs to discuss the Yemen case with the Mossad team," Ziva said abruptly, rising from her chair.

"I'll go with you," Dunham said quickly, seeming relieved to have something to do that would get him out of that conference room. DiNozzo looked up, his eyes on Ziva before traveling over to Dunham and back again, which didn't escape the Mossad officer's notice, her eyes narrowing.

"I will try to remember to come back and let you know before I go to Yemen to investigate on-site," she snapped.

"That's not what I was going to say," Tony replied, his voice low and almost a little sad. "I was going to ask if you wanted me to call and let you know when we're ready for lunch."

Ziva blinked once before looking away, instantly feeling guilty about her outburst. She was already on-edge from Burley's murder and the possible connections to the terrorist camp she had been following peripherally for the last few months, and the last thing she had needed was a dose of Tony's irrational jealousy. Accustomed to assuming the worst out of people, that was immediately where her mind had gone. "Yes," she said simply. "Thank you."

He nodded once before turning back to the computer to resume his reading. He hadn't been expecting an apology—Ziva accepted them but gave them almost as rarely as Gibbs—and so wasn't surprised when he didn't get one. He couldn't blame her, either. They were all a little tense about working a murder they wished never happened in the first place, and he had a tendency to become an ass when he was tense. Especially when there was a guy involved who was giving Ziva attention, which wasn't exactly a rare occurrence.

Even with the side thoughts about Ziva's reactions, DiNozzo was pretty much done with Agent Amin's case files on the petty officer's kid, which didn't tell him anything new. It was just like Tomblin said; it was a pissed-off father, but there was no indication that he was about to become violent about it, and definitely not toward the supervisory field agent over the agent investigating his son's whereabouts. "This is a waste of time," he said with a shake of his head, closing the file on the computer.

"Hmm?" McGee asked from his position on the other side of the table, where he was copying the data from Burley's computer onto the laptop, or some such thing like that.

"These cases," DiNozzo said, making wide waving gestures at the laptop. "A petty officer who just wants to see his kid? A commander who doesn't seem to understand that no means no? A possible leak from Naval Intelligence that there are _no_ leads on? The only active case that has _any_ possibility of having anything to do with Burley's murder is the terrorist camp in Yemen, which our Israeli friends are taking care of for us. We need something more to work with."

"What're you thinking?" McGee asked with a frown. DiNozzo opened his mouth to respond, but didn't get the chance.

"If it wasn't professional, that leaves personal." Both agents turned to the door at the sound of their boss's voice. Gibbs gestured at the computer McGee was working on. "Anything personal on that?"

"Uh, not that I've found, Boss," McGee answered. "So far," he added quickly. "Everything I've seen saved on the hard drive is work-related—case files, reports, crime scene photos, agent evaluations, professional correspondence. He kept very good records of everything, organized by type and divided into sub-folders—case files by office that investigated them, evaluations by agent, et cetera." He looked up to see Gibbs giving him one of the 'get to the point, McGee' looks. "I haven't gone through his email or internet history yet, though."

"Keep looking," Gibbs ordered. "Look through the agents' files. Gonna want to talk to anyone with a poor evaluation." He turned away from McGee and looked pointedly at DiNozzo, who just shrugged.

"I've got nothing, Boss," he said. "This thing with the petty officer and his son is pretty cut-and-dried. I don't think we even need to talk to Agent Amin or Petty Officer DeTrolio." At the look on Gibbs' face, he quickly added, "Not that I'd leave any stone unturned, Boss."

"And Ziva?"

"Israeli meeting of the minds upstairs," DiNozzo said, pointing at the ceiling. "Dunham tagged along."

"I think he was tired of the death glares Tony was shooting him across the table," McGee said with a smirk, dropping it when DiNozzo turned the death glare in his direction. He was pretty sure that if he had been within reach, he would have gotten a swift smack to the back of his head for that one.

And he flinched when it came. "What was that for, Boss?" he asked Gibbs incredulously, and then blinked at the angry expression on the supervisory special agent's face. A few seconds too late, he remembered that they were in Bahrain investigating the murder of a man who had worked with everyone on the team—well, except for him—and that their usual joking and irreverent attitudes probably weren't going to cut it this time.

"You'd both be a lot more productive if you spent half as much time investigating as you do making fun of each other," Gibbs said, sounding more annoyed than angry as he rose from his chair and again headed for the door. "Be nice if you get something done while you're here."

Well, that time he sounded angry.

Neither man spoke to the other after Gibbs left the conference room, again for places unknown. Feeling more afraid of Gibbs than he had since he really was a probie, McGee stepped up his already quick search through Burley's computer, thinking, as he did the first time he turned it on, how amazing it was that somebody who was so organized on his computer was such a slob on his desk.

Just as Gibbs ordered, he took a look through the agent evaluation forms. Despite having been trained by Gibbs and having had worked under him for five years, Burley apparently had a much different philosophy to the evaluations than his former supervisory agent. Not only did they appear to have been done before the deadlines, but it looked like he actually spent some time thinking about what he was going to write, and when he gave someone a poor evaluation, he explained his reasonings in the 'comments' section.

With evaluations of each of his agents every six months in more than two and a half years, there were quite a few to go through, but McGee made his way quickly through the file, not bothering to give any one evaluation more than a cursory glance, sending each evaluation that was mediocre or less to the printer to allow him—and probably Gibbs—to review in more detail. When he came across Kim Tomblin's evaluations, though, his curiosity got the better of him. Not surprisingly, she got high marks in every category, with comments about her knowledge of the Middle East, her potential as a field agent, and how easy she was to work with. Of course, after having worked with her for the better part of three months, he knew those things already.

He skimmed through the other folder names, but nothing jumped out to him as being unusual; figuring that they were probably related to cases that Burley had worked, and remembering Tony's frustrations about this not seeming work related, he made a mental note to go through them later, and continued his search for anything that might have been related to the late agent's personal life.

After McGee's time in the sub-basement with the Cyber Crimes unit, he knew exactly how to get into a person's NCIS email account, and less than a minute had passed before he was looking at Stan Burley's in-box. Like the rest of his computer, everything was organized neatly into folders. There wasn't much of any importance in the new messages—mostly the standard NCIS mass emails reminding them of training schedules or the timelines for supervisors to finish their evaluation—and after excluding anything there as being case-breaking, McGee moved onto the folders of saved emails.

Burley had separate folders for each of the two agents he shared an office with, as well as additional folders for each of the subordinate field offices and divisions that reported to him. McGee's eyebrows rose when he realized that there was a folder labeled 'MCRT', which had a separate sub-folder labeled 'David'. Glancing up quickly to confirm that Tony was still focusing on the case folders and not on him, he clicked on it, feeling strangely guilty as he did so. It wasn't that he was expecting to find anything, well, _personal_, but—

"You're looking guilty, McSnoops-A-Lot." He blinked in surprise as his head shot up, wondering if always knowing what was going on around him was another sign that Tony was ready to be given his own team. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Uh, reading Burley's email," he replied, trying to keep his voice from giving anything away, but he could tell by the narrowing of the other man's eyes that he was far from successful.

"Must be some fascinating reading," DiNozzo said in reply, now giving McGee his full attention as he leaned back in his chair, threading his fingers together behind his head. "I can use some entertainment. Why don't you read it out loud?" His words, despite the forced levity, had a trace of something dark and angry that McGee couldn't miss if he tried.

"Tony…" he began, his voice trailing off with a sigh. "Forget it."

"No, tell me, McGoo," DiNozzo insisted, that caustic edge to his words now out in the open for anyone to hear. "Why don't you go ahead and tell me how difficult and immature I'm being and how I'm distracting you from getting your work done by asking all sorts of questions? Better yet, why don't you—"

"I was going to ask if you got any sleep last night," McGee interrupted, and DiNozzo blinked at the probie's ability to read him so well. They really had all been working together too long; it was amazing they even had to use words to communicate. He'd have to ask the resident science fiction expert at some point if it was possible to grow a telepathic connection without knowing it.

"Oh," he said instead. He righted himself in the chair, returning his attention to the case file, but could tell by the lack of clicking from McGee's keyboard that he was still being watched. "I liked you better before you grew a backbone." McGee smirked slightly at the words. "Get back to your email reading, Probie."

"Burley has a folder of emails from Ziva," McGee said matter-of-factly. DiNozzo's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked up at the younger agent.

"I doubt you have the clearance to be reading the contents of that folder," he finally said, his voice calm and even as he went back to his own work.

"I have the same clearance as you!"

"And I doubt I have the clearance to be reading those emails, either." Truthfully, he knew that if Ziva and Burley were communicating any sort of sensitive information, they wouldn't be using the unsecured NCIS email servers, but he also knew that nothing they had been emailing about had anything to do with Burley's murder. If it had, Ziva would have said something about it already.

"Aren't you curious—"

"No," DiNozzo interrupted. He looked up to see McGee giving him a look of disbelief, and just shrugged. "I trust her," he said simply. "And you should, too. Find somewhere else to sniff around, McSnoopy. Ziva doesn't have anything to do with this."


	12. Chapter 12

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 12**

_A/N: So, FFN has been really funny about dropping things in my email the last few days (for example, I didn't get the notification that I posted chapter 11 until 30 hours after the fact). I hope this was a temporary problem and now resolved... I like having reviews suddenly appear in my email inbox (which I then read on my phone when I'm supposed to be working...)_

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More out of necessity than desire, Sonja Gracy had been a morning person since she was nine. Recognizing her talent in the swimming pool, her coaches had recommended that she change teams so she could race in the most competitive swimming league in southern Florida. With the new team came a new practice schedule, one that included morning work-outs in addition to time in the pool after school.

It wasn't easy, though. She began drinking coffee at eleven; stopped after someone told her it would stunt her growth. She took it up again at eighteen, when she realized that maintaining her GPA in a difficult major while swimming on one of the top college women's teams in the country required a little caffeine. Besides, she was done growing at that point; at least, at five feet and eleven inches, she hoped she was.

After college swimming came medical school and more early mornings, and then the Army, where the mornings came even earlier. She couldn't remember the last time she had woken to find that the sun was already up. This particular morning, just like all others, her alarm went off at 4:30, despite the fact that she had returned from the crime scene a few minutes before midnight the night before.

Like she did every morning, she grumbled as she dragged herself out of bed, but didn't waste any time as she pulled on shorts and a tee-shirt and securely tied her running shoes. It was a mile from her house to the twenty-four hour gym, where she would put in an hour and a half in the pool before changing back into her running clothes and running back home.

By the time she re-entered her house after her morning work-out, she could hear the sounds of children shuffling around upstairs and could smell the coffee percolating, the result of the automatic timer on the coffee maker. "_Guten Morgen_," she greeted the _au pair_ as she reached for a mug.

"_Morgen_," Naomi Katz, the newly-hired nanny, replied shyly. "I am making breakfast for myself. Would you like me to make some for the children as well?"

Gracy chuckled as she sipped her coffee. "Don't bother," she said, switching back to English, as Naomi had done. "They're happiest with a bowl of cereal." She gave the nanny a slight smile as she headed for the master bedroom, her coffee still in hand.

Her shower was a quick one, and then she stared at her dresser with a frown, trying to figure out whether or not she needed to wear a uniform that morning. She mentally reviewed her schedule: autopsy of the Air Force victim from the night before, some paperwork that had to be done, then she had to run over to NCIS to discuss the autopsy results with Ducky.

She groaned as the last item popped into her head. It wasn't that she minded working with the elderly medical examiner, it was just that it would be another trip driving across DC—which was always easier said than done—and after her late night at the crime scene the night before, she still hadn't even bothered figuring out who had done the autopsy on Special Agent Burley.

Deciding on civilian clothes—she had a full uniform in what was left of her office that she could change into if necessary—she tossed on a pair of khakis and tee-shirt before quickly braiding her hair, not even bothering with the little bit of make-up she sometimes wore. She finished her first cup of coffee as she headed back to the kitchen, going straight for the machine for a second. It was going to be one of those mornings.

Maddie was already at the table when she entered, with a bowl of that organic cereal she insisted on—always more serious than one would expect for a girl of her age, she recently started on a nutrition kick, declaring that she couldn't afford to gamble her swimming career on 'junk food'—and in the middle of a conversation in German with Naomi about what she would be doing in school that day. "_Guten Morgen_," Gracy greeted her daughter with a kiss on the top of her head, forgoing sitting down at the table as she would normally do to go straight for her computer. As an afterthought, she frowned slightly at the absence of her son from the table, deciding after consulting her watch that she would give him another five minutes before she went upstairs to investigate what was taking him so long.

It didn't take her long to find out who had done Agent Burley's autopsy—Commander Ben Stone, in Heidelberg—and after consulting the phone list for the Armed Forces Medical Examiner offices, dialed the number, hoping that she wasn't catching the Navy pathologist at lunch.

"_Heidelberg Office of the Armed Forces Medical Examiner, this is Dr. Stone_," her colleague reported in a perfunctory voice, and she felt a grin cross her face. Although almost a decade older and a full rank above her, he had done his forensic pathology fellowship a year after her, and always gave a good-natured complaint about reporting to his junior officers when he had to run his findings by her before he could submit them.

"Hey Ben, it's Sonja," she greeted.

"_Gracy!_" Commander Stone replied, his voice instantly lightened. "_So what do I owe the pleasure?_"

She gave a slight chuckle. "I'm not interrupting lunch, am I?"

"_Actually, you're interrupting some cutting,_" he replied. "_I got a late start this morning, on account of a crying baby keeping me up half the night. I am far too old to have an infant in the house_."

"I'm sure your other children agree with you," she replied. Much to the amusement of many in their tight-knit group of military medical examiners, the commander and his wife recently had their fourth child, an 'oops baby' nine years younger than the next youngest sibling. "Well, I hate to interrupt, but I have a question and a favor to ask."

"_Not a problem_."

"I understand you did the autopsy on NCIS Special Agent Stan Burley?" When he replied to the affirmative, she continued, "I was wondering if you could send your report and the slides to me."

"_Not a problem,_" he repeated. There was a pause before he asked, "_Not to be nosy, but what do you have to do with an NCIS investigation?_"

She smirked at the thought of replying with _I'm sleeping with the special agent in charge of the investigation_, but stuck with, "I've worked with NCIS before. It's a bit of a favor to Ducky."

"_Sure,_" he replied. "_I'll email you the secure link to the report and all the images. Everything gets loaded right up to the computer these days; it's strange not spending half of my day bent over a microscope anymore._" He paused again before asking, "_How is Dr. Mallard, anyway?_"

"Well, you know Ducky," she said. "Definitely not showing any signs of slowing down. He'll probably be doing autopsies for NCIS until the day he dies." Dr. Stone chuckled in agreement. After a few more minutes of small talk, they said their goodbyes and hung up their respective phones.

She was pleased to see Nate sitting at the table—with a grumpy look on his face, but at the table nonetheless—when she returned to the kitchen, and after a quick breakfast of her own, she threw together lunches for both Maddie and Nate, gave instructions to Naomi, and ushered the children into the car to drop them off at school before continuing on her way to work.

With Walter Reed National Military Medical Center officially having opened its doors a few days before, there wasn't too much left to be seen at the old Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The hospital was now empty, the base strangely deserted except for the employees of one building in the northeast corner. Much like everything done by the government, the completion of the new Armed Forces Institute of Pathology building had been delayed, not meeting their completion deadline of September 15, 2011. Somehow, though, somebody had found a loophole that says that it's okay that the new building was behind schedule—something about not being part of patient care—and now there seemed to be no hurry to get it done, leaving the AFIP employees on a base the State Department was chomping at the bit to take over.

With the reduced traffic, there was only one gate open—the Georgia Avenue gate, which, ironically enough, was the furthest from AFIP. Dr. Gracy offered her military ID with a thin smile to the guard, who looked at her suspiciously as if trying to figure out what she was doing there. He finally handed it back and waved her through to allow her to wind her way through the base to get to her building.

Using her badge to enter the restricted area where the forensics department was housed, she grabbed a pair of scrubs off the rack outside the autopsy suite before making her way to her office to change and prepare to start her day, and then it took another swipe of her badge to enter the autopsy suite, where she was greeted by a very impatient-looking OSI agent. "Glad you decided to show up to work today," Agent Vickerson said dryly. She frowned and glanced down at her watch—a few minutes before 0800—and looked over to her assistant, who just shrugged.

"I had to drop my kids off at school," she said slowly. "This is what time I always get here, which is pretty much the same time anyone else gets here. Sergeant Palmer, can you get Senior Airman White's body ready for autopsy?"

"Yes, ma'am," the tall and gangly sergeant answered automatically, making his way to the body coolers as Gracy began donning her head-to-toe autopsy garb. She glanced over to Vickerson and raised her eyebrows.

"Gowns, boots, sleeves, gloves, hair cover, masks, eye protection," she said, gesturing vaguely at the shelves behind her.

"I wasn't planning on joining in on the autopsy," Vickerson replied, and this time, Gracy frowned.

"If you're not planning on getting close enough to actually see anything, why are you here? You'll get my report." Vickerson flushed slightly and didn't need to say anything for Gracy to figure it out: he wanted to make sure it got done.

She wondered when exactly it was during her almost-four-year absence from that building that her reputation completely crumbled.

The autopsy went fairly quickly, even for someone who had done as many autopsies as Dr. Gracy, and it wasn't long before she sent Agent Vickerson away with promises that she would review the slides as soon as possible, even though she was sure that they had gotten everything there was to get from the gross examination; gunshot wounds didn't usually reveal many secrets under the microscope.

Leaving Sergeant Palmer to prepare the body for the funeral home, Gracy went back to her office, where a quick check to her email confirmed that Ben Stone had, indeed, sent her the link to the secure AFME site with Stan Burley's autopsy report, complete with the pictures and slides. She forwarded the link to Ducky, along with a quick note that she'll be by as soon as she could get away to discuss the findings with him.

On impulse, she began scrolling through the pictures, her eyes stopping on the picture of the stab wound—one stab wound, directly to the heart. No hesitation, no second guessing, just that one fatal wound.

She quickly shed her scrubs and grabbed her uniform from where it hung on the inside of her door. "Where the hell did my boots end up?" she muttered to herself as she zipped up the uniform blouse, finally finding them in the far corner of the office. She laced them up quickly before stuffing some charts and her laptop in her backpack, and was halfway out the door before she turned around and grabbed her beret from her desk. Now with everything she needed for her uniform, she again made her way toward her car. After what she just saw, she couldn't blame herself for being a little distracted.

Whoever stabbed Agent Burley knew exactly what he was doing. They were looking for a professional, or at the very least, someone who knew anatomy and knew his way around a knife.


	13. Chapter 13

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 13**

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Reviewing old cases always made Tony DiNozzo's head hurt, and doing so in a new location wasn't any different.

The McGiggle had spent the entire day in his natural position—hunched over a keyboard, his eyes glued to the screen in front of him—and with the exception of a brief appearance to take a slice of the pizza Tony ordered for lunch, Ziva had remained upstairs with her Mossad colleagues, which left Tony in the conference room alone with his thoughts and the sound of McGee's fingers hitting keys at a speed that he wasn't even sure was physically possible. He tried to entertain himself by pestering the junior agent, but the non-stop recitations of movie quotes didn't even get him a second glance, and eventually he dropped it in favor of just staring at case file after case file, waiting for something to jump out at him or start gnawing at his gut.

And speaking of 'gut', he realized he hadn't seen Gibbs in quite a few hours. He wondered briefly what the supervisory field agent was up to, but then dropped that line of thought. He figured whatever lead Gibbs was working up would make its way out to the open soon enough.

He was just tossing the most recently reviewed case file into the 'nothing here' pile when he sensed a change in the air around him. "Hello, Ziva," he said calmly, not even bothering to turn his head to confirm that that was who was now standing directly behind him. His skills at perception were rewarded with a deep chuckle and a cascade of dark hair over his shoulder as she leaned closer.

"Hello, Tony," she replied in an almost sing-song tone. He raised his eyebrows; that tone usually came out when she was in a playful mood. Or at least a good one.

He finally turned to face her, his chair turning with him, and rested his hand on her hip. "Productive day?" he asked, a question that was rewarded with a quirk of her eyebrows and slight smile. He knew better than to ask anything further, aware that she probably couldn't say anything and that that line of questioning could only lead to them arguing about her job and Mossad's activities.

"Freiler arranged for us to have a couple of cars from the motor pool," she said, completely changing the subject. "I am going to go to the NEX and the commissary. Would you like me to get you anything? They probably have running shoes."

DiNozzo chuckled slightly; his go-bag hadn't included a pair of running shoes, so when Ziva left for her run that morning, he stayed in bed, trying to get some sleep. "What makes you think I didn't leave them in DC on purpose?" he asked teasingly. "Maybe I need a break from your morning runs."

Ziva snorted. "Then you will be even slower the next time you do run."

He rolled his eyes. "I'll go with you," he said, nudging her aside so he could stand from his chair. "Not as if I'm getting anywhere here, anyway. Probie." McGee looked up in surprise at the sound of his nickname. "You coming?"

The junior agent blinked once in surprise before his eyes began traveling back and forth between the computer monitor and his teammates, still trying to decide if they were serious and if he was at a place where he could stop without losing his train of thought. Realizing that he still had about three-quarters of the data on Burley's computer to go through and that it was fairly low-yield to begin with, he decided that maybe calling it a day was a good idea. "That depends," he finally said, looking between Tony and Ziva and back again. "Who's driving?"

---

While Gibbs left his team running leads at the NCIS office, he went out to give a commander the sexual harassment education he had obviously been skipping out on.

Despite the fact that NSA Bahrain was the home to the Navy's Central Command and the Fifth Fleet, the base itself was actually pretty small, and it didn't take the supervisory field agent very long to find the office of Commander Richard Templeton. "Commander," he greeted, pulling his credentials from his pocket. "Special Agent Gibbs. NCIS."

The gaunt-looking commander looked up quickly in surprise before he rolled his eyes. "Obviously NCIS doesn't have enough to investigate, if they're now sending more agents to try to get me to confess to something I didn't do." He studied Gibbs for a long minute. "What, is that Agent Burley getting so desperate that he now has to bring in the big guns? That is what you are, right? The big guns? 'Cause you look far too old to be some new junior agent that bastard sent after me to annoy me. That's it," he said abruptly, "I'm filing a complaint with NCIS headquarters. This is harassment."

He rose as if to look for the number to call, but Gibbs didn't give him the opportunity. "Sit down," he said in his most commanding tone, and in his surprise, Templeton sat. In the space of half a second, Gibbs had to decide how he was going to proceed with this. Tomblin was right; Templeton was an arrogant prick. "Tell me about your dealings with Agent Burley." The commander rolled his eyes harshly and looked ready to shoot back with something sarcastic, but the look on Gibbs' face was enough to tell him that that wasn't a good idea.

"He came by here the first time about two months ago, with one of the JAGs," Templeton said reluctantly. "After that, he came by with one of his motley crew of merry men or whatever you want to call them—"

"How about 'federal agents'?"

Templeton flushed at the interruption. "Right. He'd come by with one of his federal agents—you know, the short little Asian-looking girl or the skinny guy with the unnaturally perfect teeth—and they'd try to trick me into confessing something I didn't do."

"What did you do?"

Templeton's brown eyes rolled again. "I didn't do anything," he said emphatically. "I'm a busy man, Agent Gibbs. I have a lot of responsibilities, and not a lot of time to complete all of them. What little time I do have doesn't give me enough room in my schedule for weekly visits from these…federal agents, just because a group of whiny girls who can't hack it in the Navy heard things that weren't said—"

"Heard it went beyond saying things," Gibbs interrupted again, and again, Templeton flushed a bright red.

"I assure you, those… allegations, are completely made up. Hell, for all I know, it was _Burley_ who made them up, told one of these girls that I seduced her or some such thing in an effort to get to me."

"I don't think that's what happened, Commander," Gibbs replied, the harsh tone in his voice making Templeton blink behind his thick glasses. "I think maybe you knew that Burley was on to something."

Templeton raised his hands in the air in frustration, allowing them to fall to his lap with a loud _thwack_. "You're mad," he said emphatically. "Your entire agency… You're all mad! You come after innocent officers and try to ruin careers… I'm going to have Burley's career for this, I really am. This has gone on too far. And yours, too, for being _stupid_ enough to have allowed that idiot excuse for a special agent convince you—"

"Burley's dead," Gibbs said flatly, stopping Commander Templeton in mid-tirade. His mouth opened and closed a few times without sound before he spoke again.

"And you think _I_ did it?" he finally managed, his tone incredulous.

"Did you?"

"No! Good God, _no_. The man annoyed me. I wanted him to leave me alone. That doesn't mean I wanted him _dead_."

"And I'm supposed to believe you?" Again, Gibbs' voice had a hard edge, enough to make Templeton visibly recoil from the NCIS agent. "You've sat here and lied to my face since I walked through the door, and _now_ I'm supposed to believe you're telling the truth?"

"No, I didn't—I haven't been lying to you! I—"

"You said it, Commander. You said Agent Burley was out to ruin your career." He leaned closer to the naval officer, close enough to be threatening without physically touching. "And you're an important man, with _responsibilities_. You'd do just about anything to protect that career, wouldn't you?"

"I wouldn't _kill_ a man!" Templeton denied emphatically. "I'm surface warfare, Agent Gibbs. I don't even kill in combat. Hell, I don't even _own_ a firearm."

With that statement, Gibbs confirmed his initial suspicion that Commander Templeton had nothing to do with Burley's death. Criminals were idiots; they had a tendency to say things that they wouldn't know if they weren't somehow involved, and the fact that Templeton went immediately to 'shot' when he heard 'dead' was a pretty good indication that he knew none of the details surrounding the special agent's murder. Still, he wasn't about to let him down easily. He leaned even further into Templeton's personal space, his eyes narrowing in what Abby would call his 'Gibbs stare'. "I believe you," he said after a heavy pause. "But that doesn't mean I don't think you're a complete bastard. Piece of advice, Commander? Get out of Bahrain. Oh," he added as he got up to leave. "They're not 'whiny girls', Commander. They're sailors. Do you good to learn the difference."


	14. Chapter 14

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 14**

_A/N: Time for a recap, I guess. Special Agent Stan Burley was murdered in his Bahrain apartment, and Team Gibbs from NCIS Headquarters was sent halfway across the world to investigate. Before they arrived, Special Agent Kim Tomblin reviewed the Bahrain team's open cases; from four cases with possible connections, one remains, a terrorist training camp in Yemen that Special Agent Chad Dunham and a small group of Mossad operatives had been investigating. Ziva is working that angle with the Mossad team while McGee goes through Burley's computer, DiNozzo reviews old cases, and Gibbs does Gibbs-type things. Back in the States, Dr. Sonja Gracy received Burley's autopsy report, having enough time to determine that whoever killed him is very comfortable with a knife, before heading to NCIS to review the report with Ducky._

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Despite the fact that the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology and NCIS Headquarters at the Navy Yard were separated by less than nine miles, almost an hour had passed between Dr. Sonja Gracy leaving her office and arriving at NCIS, and she couldn't help but wonder at her career choices—she had left a warm and tropical paradise with horrible traffic, to go back to Washington, DC, which was uncomfortably hot and humid in the summer and bitterly cold in the winter, and still had horrible traffic.

Iraq may have had bullets and bombs, but at least she didn't have to deal with traffic.

She was still smiling thinly at the thought as she signed the visitor's log at the entrance to NCIS Headquarters, the portly guard studying her Army ID with much more scrutiny than the card deserved. "Here you go, Major," he finally said, handing the ID back along with an NCIS visitor badge. "Do you need an escort?"

"No," she said, smiling politely at the question as she clipped the badge to her uniform collar. "I know my way." He nodded in acknowledgement as she hefted her backpack on her shoulder and headed for the elevators. She almost reflexively hit the button for the squadroom, before she remembered that there would be no one there for her to talk to. As the elevator rumbled toward the basement, she found herself smiling at the memory of the slightly exasperated expression on Gibbs' face when he walked into his bullpen to see her sitting at his desk unannounced.

_You're pathetic, Gracy_, she mocked to herself, allowing a slight smile. It had been so long since she was in the dating game—she was twenty the last time she met a man she referred to as her 'boyfriend', and she ended up marrying him a year and a half later—that she was still trying to get used to all the little 'relationship' things again. Her only consolation was that she was currently 'dating', if that's what they were doing, a man who was even worse at it than she was.

Then again, he got four women to agree to marry him, so he couldn't have been _that_ bad at it.

She was still holding her black beret loosely in her hand when the glass doors to Autopsy slid open, revealing the shiny stainless steel and bright lights she would always associate with morgues everywhere. Over the dull rumbling of the ventilation system, she heard a deep Scottish brogue that she would always associate with NCIS' medical examiner, and couldn't help but smile again.

Not surprisingly, it was Jimmy Palmer who first noticed her entrance. "Dr. Mallard," the pathology assistant said insistently, having to repeat himself twice before Ducky finally stopped talking and turned his head to where Palmer was indicating.

"Ah, hello, Sonja," Ducky said pleasantly, already returning his attention to the corpse in front of him. "I wasn't expecting you for another few hours yet."

"Traffic was bad, Ducky, but it wasn't that bad."

He chuckled at that. "I think we're done here, Mr. Palmer, if you don't mind closing our guest up and preparing him for the funeral home."

"Sure thing, Dr. Mallard," Palmer said pleasantly. "Hello, Dr. Gracy," he finally greeted, almost as an afterthought.

"Jimmy," she replied with a nod. "I didn't mean to interrupt, Ducky."

He waved her apology aside. "We really were finishing up," he said. "Our dear admiral here was the victim of a lifetime of fatty foods and too much stress."

"Cardiac arrest," Gracy guessed, earning a nod in reply. "Not your usual case."

"The stars he wore on his shoulder were enough to land him on my table, natural causes or not. In any society, I believe, a certain amount of diligence will always be given to those of high status, that the commoners do not receive."

"Stars mean a lot in this society," she agreed, adjusting her backpack on her shoulders. "Is there a place you want me to set up?"

"That table over there should be just fine, my dear," he replied, nodding to an empty autopsy table. "And if you will excuse me, I would like to get cleaned up before we begin." She nodded slightly to that as she placed her backpack on the table and began pulling things out.

She began to get the sensation that she was being watched, and turned her head to see Palmer looking at her like he had something he wanted to say, but didn't know how to broach the subject. "Do you need something, Palmer?" she asked with a frown, and the pathology assistant's ears turned pink with embarrassment at the question.

"Well, I was just wondering…" His voice trailed off, and she didn't think it was possible, but he turned even more pink.

"Wondering…" she prompted.

"I, uh, just wanted to know if…"

"Mr. Palmer," Ducky said as he re-entered the room, when Palmer again trailed off. "Dr. Gracy does not read minds. If you have a question, I suggest you ask it."

"Has Naomi said anything about me?" Palmer blurted out, and Gracy remembered the way he spent most of her housewarming party talking to the Israeli _au pair_. They actually had a lot in common—among other things, Naomi was starting a graduate program in physical anthropology, and it wasn't every day that people who lacked any sort of squeamishness around corpses ran into each other—but they were also both almost painfully shy when it came to the opposite sex.

She had to fight to keep the smirk she was feeling from showing on her face, and keeping her voice as even as possible, replied, "Well, she hasn't said anything _bad_ about you. I can you give you her number, if you want to call her."

"Do you think I should?" Palmer asked, his words coming out quickly in his nervousness. "I mean, if she wanted me to call, don't you think she would have given me her number herself? And I don't know if it's a big deal for her, but I'm definitely not Jewish, and—"

"Jimmy," Gracy interrupted, not able to hold back her smile. "Just call her."

"Uh, okay." He went back to his suturing before looking up again. "Are you sure—"

"Mr. Palmer," Ducky interrupted, "As important as your dating life is, there are more pressing matters at hand."

"Oh, of course. Sorry, Dr. Mallard." Gracy couldn't help the quiet chuckle that crossed her lips as she fully turned to give Ducky and the material in front of them her full attention.

"You'll have to excuse Mr. Palmer," Ducky said, quietly enough that Palmer couldn't hear. "He means well, but relationships have not been easy for him. He got rather badly burnt by one a few years back, a few months before you joined us for the first time, actually."

"We've all been there, Ducky," Gracy replied.

"Ah, but this was not your typical lover's quarrel gone bad," Ducky replied, sounding almost sad. "But enough about that. You came here to discuss Stan's autopsy."

"Right," Gracy replied, forcing Ducky's cryptic statement from her mind as she returned her attention to the case at hand. "Ben Stone did the autopsy in Heidelberg."

"Ah, yes, our dear Dr. Stone," Ducky said, sounding pleased about that fact. "A highly competent pathologist. I remember his residency."

"You're dating yourself, Ducky," Gracy said with a chuckle.

"Nonsense. I remember your residency as well, Dr. Gracy."

"Ben's was a decade before mine."

"Ah, yes, there is that," he said thoughtfully. "How time does fly. Of course, I wasn't with NCIS yet when Dr. Stone was a resident. It was the most unusual case that caused our paths to cross—"

"Ducky," Gracy interrupted, gesturing at the information in front of them. "How about we focus on _this_ case first?"

"Of course," the NCIS medical examiner replied. Gracy grinned as she pulled up her work laptop, a brand-new high-definition LCD touch-screen tablet that displayed slides even better than a microscope.

"Based on the data gathered at the scene, Ben estimated TOD to have been in the afternoon before the body was found. COD was this stab wound."

"A very precise hit directly to the heart," Ducky observed.

"Exactly," Gracy said with a nod. "Left mid-clavicular line in the fifth intercostal space. The point of maximal impulse of the heart."

"Our killer knew anatomy," Ducky mused.

"And knew knives," Gracy added, using her fingers to spread the picture, zooming in on the wound itself. "No hesitation, no slip, just… stab." Palmer, who had finished with the admiral they had been working on when Gracy arrived, pulled up a chair beside them. Gracy angled the screen slightly so the pathology assistant could see as well. "I left the office fairly quickly as soon as I saw this, so I didn't get a chance to go through Ben's measurements on the actual wound." She pulled up that part of the report and frowned slightly at the numbers she saw there. "Well, that's unusual," she murmured, reaching for a pen from her uniform and a piece of scrap paper, jotting down numbers and angles without further explanation.

"What's unusual?" Palmer finally asked. As if forgetting that other people were there, Gracy blinked slightly before turning to him to explain.

"The angle of the wound," she said, gesturing toward her scribbles. She frowned as she tried to figure out how to explain what she was thinking. "There are certain ways to kill that tend to be associated with one gender or another. Women are more likely to use poison than men, men are more likely to be the one behind a gun. Knives can go either way. For one, stabbing is a very personal way to kill someone. Not only do you have to get close enough that they could attack you first, but you also have to be willing to look them in the eye and watch them die. That type of confidence is more typically found in men, especially in a case like this one, where there is no hesitation at all. On the other hand, though, women are more likely to use a knife as a defensive weapon than a gun. More women are comfortable with knives than with guns, so if being attacked in the home, they will go to the kitchen and grab the biggest and sharpest knife they own." She lapsed into silence again. "The fact that Agent Burley was found in the kitchen would raise the index of suspicion for self-defense—"

"But that would imply that Stan would be attacking a woman in his own home," Ducky interrupted.

"Exactly," Gracy replied. "I've never met Agent Burley, but I trust Gibbs' judgment of character. There's no way he would trust a man who would be the sort to attack a woman. Besides," she said, again gesturing toward the wound. "This was most definitely not made by a kitchen knife."

"How can you tell?" Palmer asked with a frown.

"I'll get to that," Gracy promised. "The point to that whole tangent is that this type of wound—the precision, the lack of hesitation—would suggest a man. But based on the trajectory of the wound, if it was a man, it was a very short one."

"How can you tell?" Palmer repeated, studying Gracy's calculations as if they contained the answers to the questions of the universe.

"Contrary to what Hollywood would lead you to believe, most stabbings are underhanded." She pantomimed an underhanded thrusting motion. "They're not the overhand hacking motion that _Psycho_ made popular. Because of that, you would expect a certain upward angle in your typical stabbing, but these angles," she gestured toward the calculations. "If you assume a distance between perpetrator and victim of thirty to forty-five centimeters—twelve to eighteen inches—the perpetrator would be between…" Her voice trailed off as she pulled her BlackBerry from the lower cargo pocket on her right leg and used it as a calculator, "one hundred forty-five and 160 centimeters."

"Oh, my," Ducky murmured.

"Hmm?" Palmer asked.

"About four feet and ten inches to five feet and three inches," Ducky translated.

"Oh," Palmer said with a blink. "That's short."

"Yeah," Gracy agreed. "We're looking for a short, right-handed killer—probably a woman—who knows her way around a knife and isn't afraid to use one."

"And who has knowledge of human anatomy and knew Stan well enough to get that close to him," Ducky added. Gracy nodded.

"But what about the knife?" Palmer asked after a moment of silent contemplation. "You said it wasn't a kitchen knife, but what kind of knife was it?"

"Ah," Gracy said, a slight smile on her lips. "I bet there's someone in this building who can help us with that."


	15. Chapter 15

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 15**

_A/N: I'm glad that the dirty bombs in last night's episode were fictional. If they were real, I would have been locked up in the hospital as 'essential personnel in the event of a terrorist attack' (yes, there are protocols in place for such circumstances). Of course, if this snow doesn't stop, I might be locked up in the hospital just because I can't get out._

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Abby Sciuto was tapping her toe—as well as she could in her platform boots—along to the new _Insectivorous Akeake_ album playing from her iPod speakers, which were turned up loud enough that she completely missed the sound of the lab doors sliding open, causing her to almost jump in surprise when she spun toward Major Mass Spec and saw three people standing there, watching her in amusement.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Hi, Ducky, Jimmy, Gracy." She saw Ducky's lips move in response, but couldn't make out what he was saying. "What?" she asked. When the medical examiner pointed to his ears, she figured out what he was trying to say, and reached for her remote to turn the music down to a reasonable level.

"And what brings the jolly trio of death to Labby today?" she asked cheerfully as she removed the sample of the sticky substance Agent Cabrera found at his crime scene in Norfolk from the machine. Pine sap. Hardly case breaking. She almost felt bad for the newby agent, until she remembered what he said to her when his FLETC class was touring her lab.

Bastard.

"We need your expertise," Dr. Gracy replied, returning Abby's thoughts from the sleazy Norfolk agent to the two medical examiners and one pathology assistant in front of her. Gracy held up the laptop she had in her hands briefly. "Is there a place I can set this up?"

Abby cleared her a space on the lab bench as she tried to figure out what could be bringing the Army pathologist to NCIS. Suddenly remembering the reports that McGee had emailed her the night before, it came to her. "Is this about Stan?" she asked, almost reluctantly. Gracy finished plugging the small computer in before turning toward the forensic scientist, her eyebrows raised.

"Is that a problem?" she asked, her voice a bit sympathetic.

"No," Abby said abruptly, not liking sympathy from anybody. "No problem. What do you need?" She turned back to the Army major to see a surprised look on Gracy's face, and remembered a few seconds too late that Gracy knew exactly what it was like to investigate the death of someone she knew. She was about to apologize, but figured that the woman who was rumored to be sleeping with their boss probably had the same thoughts about apologies as he did.

"We need to find a knife," Gracy said, her voice entirely professional, her eyes on the screen of the laptop in front of her before she raised them to gauge Abby's reaction. She quirked an eyebrow at the determined expression that she saw there.

"I've done a lot of cases with knives," Abby said, heading over to her own computer to bring up a database she had created a few years before and updated periodically. "Probably not as many as you, though."

"I'm usually more concerned with the wound than the knife," Gracy replied, a hint of amusement in her voice. "What information do you need?"

"Anything you can give me," Abby replied. Gracy nodded slightly and brought Ben Stone's report up on the laptop.

"Blade length is approximately eighteen centimeters," she began. "Width…" her voice trailed off, and Abby turned to see a frown of concentration on Gracy's face. "Do you have any scratch paper?" she finally asked. Abby grabbed a sheet from the printer and handed it over. "The wound is almost five centimeters, but I bet the killer widened it by tugging the knife toward midline after stabbing," the pathologist said, drawing angles on the paper. "With the apex of—"

"That's okay," Abby said quickly. "We can use other characteristics."

Gracy smiled slightly as she brought up a pathology slide on the laptop. "Based on the cutting between the cells on median side of the wound and the compression on the lateral aspect, we're looking at a knife with one sharp edge and one dull."

Abby nodded as she entered that into the database, only eliminating a few knives from the thousands of possibilities they began with. "Do you have the thickness?"

"About 3.5 millimeters, but it's an irregular surface. I mean, it's not a flat knife." Turning back to look at Palmer, she explained, "Kitchen knives are thin and almost have a uniform thickness. This wound indicates that the knife is thickest in the middle." She had a mental image of what the knife would look like, and was pretty sure it looked like something in the tactical weapons section of the catalog she ordered most of her Army gear from. She frowned as she again brought up the picture of the wound, zooming in as close as she could without losing detail. "The medial aspect of the wound is jagged," she finally said. "So the knife is partially serrated on the sharp end, but not on the whole blade."

Abby nodded slightly. That detail actually eliminated quite a few choices. "Straight blade or curved?"

"Straight," Gracy replied without hesitation. "And there's some bruising around the wound, so it likely has a hilt."

Abby nodded and entered that in, then frowned slightly as she realized what she had left. "There's some sort of black foreign material in the wound as well," Gracy continued, absently working a lock of hair loose from where her braid was coiled at her neck. "A black powder of some sort."

"Epoxy powder?" Abby asked, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. Gracy looked up and frowned.

"Probably," she said slowly. "It's non-reflective. Why?"

"Because," Abby said triumphantly as she brought a knife up on the screen. "Combat knives are coated in an epoxy powder to make them non-reflective. It's a KA-BAR."

To her surprise, Gracy wasn't excited about the discovery as she was. "It's a Navy base, Abby," she reminded the forensic scientist. "A Navy base where Marines stop on their way to and from theater. Do you know how many KA-BARs there must be in Bahrain?"

Abby shook her head, her black pigtails flying before turning back to the computer, bringing up another knife. "_This_ is the standard-issue KA-BAR," she said, gesturing at the knife on the plasma screen. "No serration, just a smooth blade. Whoever used _this_ knife," she again brought up the one that was there previously, "bought it themself. It wasn't issued."

---

Gibbs rubbed his eyes tiredly, trying to concentrate on the thoughts going through his head and get them in some sort of order. He was missing something, he was sure of it, but between the time zone changes and the fact that this was Stan's murder he was working on, he just couldn't figure it out.

He sat on the couch in his half of the suite—fortunately, he and McGee had been given a room with two bedrooms and a door separating them, although they still had to share a bathroom—with a blank pad of paper on his lap, wishing he had his boat or something he could do with his hands to calm down his thoughts. He eyed the coffee table for a long minute, contemplating removing one of the legs to begin whittling with his knife, but ultimately decided against it. It wasn't that he was above willful destruction of property, it was just that he didn't want to have to buy the military lodging a new coffee table.

Something DiNozzo had said earlier that day stuck with him, something about this not being a professional hit. At the time, he made a comment about the fact that if it wasn't professional, it must be personal, but he hadn't really thought about it then. Now, though, he couldn't get his mind, and he had no idea why that off-hand comment wouldn't leave him alone.

And then, suddenly, it was there. As if it was happening right in front of him, he could see it: Gracy in her usual khakis and tee-shirt, sitting on the bottom step down to the basement and leaning against the wall, a beer bottle in her hand and the expression on her face that she wore when she had had a particularly trying day. _A stabbing is very personal_, she had said matter-of-factly. _You have to be close enough to another person to touch him, which means he's close enough to touch you, and if he's faster, kill you. And then there's blood, on your hands if not your face and your clothes, and you see in his eyes the instant he realizes what you've just done; you watch him die._

He had rolled his eyes and told her that she was spending too much time around Ducky if she was starting to psychoanalyze murderers, and then tossed her a sanding block and told her to make herself useful.

She hadn't sanded the boat, but she did make herself useful.

He smirked slightly at the thought before forcing himself to move on and figure out just what that was all supposed to mean, and again his eyes fell on the leg of the coffee table. He was just about to reach for it and pull out his knife when his phone rang.

"Speak of the devil," he muttered, noticing the name on the display. "Gibbs," he barked as he accepted the call, and was met with a few seconds of silence.

_"I didn't wake you up, did I?"_ He glanced at his watch and realized it was a few minutes after midnight, and suddenly felt tired.

"No," he said with a sigh. "I was just thinking."

_"Well, sorry to have interrupted that,"_ Sonja Gracy said, her voice laced with amused sarcasm. _"I've got something for you."_

"You got the autopsy report?"

_"Now, when have I let you down?"_ she teased. He just sighed and rubbed his face, wondering if she was going to get to the point. A second later, she did, all teasing gone from her voice and replaced with the clipped clinical tones he had learned to associate with her giving a report. _"Commander Ben Stone did the autopsy in Heidelberg,"_ she began. _"He's good, knows what to look for and doesn't miss much. Time of death was likely Sunday afternoon, based on the information collected at the scene, manner of death of was homicide, cause of death was penetrating trauma to the left ventricle."_

"Gracy," he said with a sigh.

_"He was stabbed in the heart,"_ she said bluntly. _"Directly to the heart; the killer knew anatomy. Based on the angle of the wound, you're looking for someone right-handed between four-ten and five-three_—"

"Five-ten and six-three?" he asked with a frown.

_"No. Four-ten and five-three."_

"He was killed by a woman."

_"Could be a short man. Or a kid. Do you have any adolescent suspects?"_

"No," he replied, not bothering to tell her that they currently didn't have _any_ suspects. "What about the knife?"

_"Went over that with Abby,"_ she said. _"She's a little bit more excited about it than I am. It's a serrated KA-BAR, probably the field/utility knife, based on their website."_

"Not standard issue," he replied, thinking about the straight and smooth-edged knife he had gotten when he finished boot camp, and immediately began trying to figure out what someone would need a different knife for.

_"That's what Abby said,"_ Gracy agreed. _"She said it means you're either looking for someone who's supplementing their issued knife, or—"_

"Or someone not in the service," he finished.

_"Right."_ There was a long pause over the phone. _"I wish I had something more for you."_

"Didn't expect the killer to leave his name on the body."

_"No, I guess not,"_ she agreed, _"although based on the height, you probably mean 'her'."_

"Right," he said absently, and the image of Kim Tomblin's flushed face came to mind. She was certainly short enough, but what motive could she possibly have? Wanting Burley's job? She would have to be an idiot to think that would happen; not only was it a well-known secret that DiNozzo was going to get the job offer for Bahrain when Burley was reassigned, but she would have had to know that she would get caught. She's a cop and knows forensics; she knows that there's no such thing as a perfect murder. He was pretty sure Abby knew that as well, despite her frequent threats to kill people without leaving any evidence behind.

He sighed again and rubbed his forehead, wishing he could do something for that damn headache. _"You still there, Gibbs?"_ He realized at Gracy's question that they had lapsed into silence again.

"Yeah," he said. "Just trying to deal with this damn headache."

_"It's probably caffeine withdrawal,"_ she said, sounding amused. He snorted but didn't dispute it, knowing she was probably right. _"Get some sleep, Jethro. Things'll look clearer in the morning."_

He knew by the use of his middle name that she was worried about him. Probably rightfully so, knowing himself and knowing how he gets with certain cases. And if Ducky was being as free with his stories as he always is, she had probably heard of some of his more obsessive periods as well. "Yeah," he finally said. "Thanks, Sonja." Fair was fair; she called him by his given name, he could do the same.

_"Goodnight, Gibbs."_ And for once, he wasn't the one who hung up the phone first.


	16. Chapter 16

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 16**

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**

Tony didn't know if it was the crick in his neck or the throbbing in his bad knee that woke him up, but as he blinked back to consciousness, he realized he was folded into some sort of uncomfortable position sitting on the couch, Ziva's head on his shoulder and the menu screen of the DVD, complete with the thirty seconds of music that continuously looped, on the television.

He groaned and stretched as best he could without waking Ziva, leaning forward for the remote to turn off the TV. They had seen the Red Box DVD rental station as they were leaving the Exchange in the evening, and Ziva suggested that they get something to watch after dinner. Both needing something light, they agreed on a comedy in the new releases section, which turned out to be a mistake. Apparently, all the funny parts of the movie were the ones that had been shown in the trailer; the rest of the movie was rather dull and juvenile. He didn't have a problem with juvenile when it was combined with at least a little bit of humor, but this was just bad. He probably made it halfway through the movie; Ziva was out long before that.

Wondering how long they had been poorly positioned on the couch, he squinted slightly in attempts to make out the green numbers on the front of the DVD player and saw that it was 0200. He groaned again, this time in realization that Ziva's alarm would be going off in about three hours. "Hey, Sweetcheeks, wake up," he said softly, tapping her on the shoulder. "It's zero-two. Time for bed."

"Hmm?" she murmured, opening an eye. Realizing she was still on the couch, she stretched out before making her way to a more up-right position. "Was the rest of the movie any good?"

"No," Tony said bluntly. "I think the only funny parts were the ones they had in the trailer. And that had nothing to do with the actual movie."

"Mmm," Ziva murmured absently and obviously not caring, already on her feet and making her way toward the bed. A few minutes after she got up, Tony also rose from the couch, limping slightly. Catching the different sound in his footsteps, she turned toward him, just in time to see him grab the bottle of ibuprofen that they bought at the NEX and shake a few out to swallow them dry. "You should use water," she said as he again headed toward her. He just shrugged a shoulder and climbed into bed.

Ziva continued to watch him for several long minutes as they laid there, even after his breathing slowed and evened out, thinking that he had fallen back asleep, which is why she blinked in surprise when he spoke. "You're thinking too loud," he grumbled, his eyes still closed. "Go to sleep."

"Tony," she said softly, and his eyes opened to look at her. "I will likely be going to Yemen soon."

He sighed and turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "I figured," he finally said before turning his head to look at her. "Just… be careful."

"I always am."

He chuckled softly and without mirth before reaching over and tracing scars on her shoulder and the outside of her upper thigh, before finishing with the faint line on her temple, all examples of when being careful wasn't enough. "I know," he finally said, his eyes returning to hers. "I just don't want to move to Bahrain alone."

She nodded slightly, knowing that telling him that he won't wouldn't be enough; they both knew that her job was dangerous and that she couldn't promise anything. Instead of saying anything, she leaned closer and kissed him. "Go to sleep, Tony. I do not think Gibbs would tolerate your sleep-deprived behavior a second day in a row."

---

McGee awoke to hear his boss already rustling around on his side of the suite, and gave a barely-audible groan at the thought of going through another day working this case. The longer they went without getting closer to figuring out who killed Burley, the surlier Gibbs got, the tenser Tony got, the more secretive Ziva got, and the more McGee got abused from all angles. It was glares from Gibbs, head-slaps from Tony, and looks of sympathy from Ziva, which was honestly stranger and more disconcerting than the other two.

"McGee!"

And thus it began again.

He groaned again as he threw off the comforter, exposing himself to the overly-conditioned air of the suite. "Yeah, Boss," he called back before opening the door to his bedroom area, finding the supervisory field agent standing right there.

"Get moving. Time to get to work." Still staring at McGee, Gibbs brought his cup—filled with of the coffee that he packed with him and wouldn't let anyone else touch—to his lips.

"Right, Boss."

It was probably the fastest he had ever showered and gotten ready for work, but that didn't keep Gibbs from looking impatient as they headed for the parking lot. When he saw Tony and Ziva slow to a walk as they approached, obviously at the end of their morning run, he thought he'd be off the hook, but Gibbs only smirked before taking another sip of his coffee. "You got beat by a girl, DiNozzo."

"Not the first time, Boss," Tony replied with a grin as he used the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. Ziva just chuckled as she reached into Tony's front pocket for the card key. McGee blinked at such an obvious display in front of Gibbs, but the boss didn't even look annoyed.

"If you're gonna play grab-ass, make it quick," he said mildly. "Got work to do."

"Sure thing, Boss," DiNozzo replied. "See ya at the office." Gibbs only raised his cup slightly in response before climbing into the driver's seat of the car, and McGee couldn't help but wonder what alternate reality he slipped into where Gibbs was nice and fair and treated his agents like equals.

"You coming, McGee?"

Nope. Still the Gibbs he knew.

The drive across base was silent, Gibbs somehow managing to keep from crashing the car into anything while driving in his usual manner with one hand and holding his coffee with the other, and McGee still trying to figure out what had just happened in the parking lot. If Gibbs wasn't being nice to everyone on the team, than it must just be Tony. A nod to the likelihood of them soon being equals? One last opportunity to be nice before DiNozzo leaving the team?

Since when did Gibbs care about being nice?

That was still gnawing at him when he entered the NCIS building and made his way to the field agents' office. To McGee's surprise, Agent Freiler was sitting at his computer, but Kim Tomblin was nowhere to be seen. "Where's Kim?" he asked with a frown. Freiler looked up and frowned before his eyes turned to his partner's desk.

"Probably rucking," he finally said.

"What?" McGee asked, wondering if he heard that right and wondering why the Mormon junior agent was being so crude and profane if he hadn't. Freiler just shrugged before returning his attention to his computer screen.

Figuring he wasn't going to get anything else from the junior agent, McGee frowned again before making his way to the conference room to claim the same chair he had yesterday, behind the laptop connected to Burley's computer. He took a deep breath before again starting the computer.

"Looking for a woman." He looked up in surprise at Gibbs' voice and turned to see his boss standing in the conference room doorway.

"Uh, Boss?" he finally asked. "Is this really the best time—"

"The murderer, Elf Lord," Gibbs interrupted, an exasperated expression on his face. "Height somewhere between four-ten and five-three." Without further explanation, he again ducked out of the conference room, again for places unknown.

"Four-ten and five-three," McGee muttered to himself. With Gibbs' cryptic comments and behavior toward Tony and Ziva, Kim's absence, and Freiler's possible swearing, this case just kept getting stranger and stranger.


	17. Chapter 17

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 17**

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**

Despite the words that possibly could have been construed of as permission to fool around before going to work, the MCRT's senior field agent and Mossad liaison got ready quickly, showering and dressing and swinging by the Gateway's lobby for a 'continental breakfast' of packaged muffins in almost record time before arguing over the keys—which Ziva won—and making their way to the building housing NCIS.

They ended up arriving only minutes before Special Agent Kim Tomblin crossed the threshold to her office. "My feet are bleeding," she said matter-of-factly before shrugging the large MARPAT—Marine Pattern—rucksack off her back and depositing it on the floor, sucking on the straw connected to the oversized smoothie in her hand. At the phrase, Ziva frowned and turned to DiNozzo, wondering if it was an idiom of some sort. He just shook his head.

"You seem a little dressed up, Tomblin," he said instead. "Or should I say, dressed down." The petite special agent was wearing a tight athletic shirt over desert MARPAT pants and tan combat boots, her back completely soaked in sweat where her rucksack had been and streaks of dirt on her face. Her long black hair French braided and hanging down her back and a pair of Oakley sunglasses on the top of her head completed the ensemble.

Tomblin just shrugged as she took another long drink of the smoothie. "I woke up at zero-two and couldn't fall back asleep, so I decided to go rucking," she said as an explanation. "Did twenty miles."

DiNozzo whistled through his teeth. "How long did that take you?"

"A little over four hours," she said, sounding proud of that fact. "Not bad for an out-of-shape former Marine." She limped a few steps to her chair, wincing as she went. "But my feet are cut up." She collapsed into her chair and pulled open the window before leaning down to untie her boots and loosen the laces, wincing again as she pulled them off.

There was another whistle from Tony when her boots came off her feet, this time at the obviously high-quality boot socks, now stained red with blood on both heels. "Damn, Tomblin, that looks like it hurts."

"Yeah," she said, her voice tight as she peeled off the socks to examine the damage. "I don't have the callouses that I had when I was still in the Corps. Freiler."

The Bahrain team's junior agent opened a desk drawer and tossed a box of large bandages across the office. "I thought Stan told you to take it easy with the early morning ruck marches."

"Yeah, well, Stan's dead," Tomblin said bitterly. "Hence the early morning rucking." She glanced up to see a disapproving expression on her partner's face and sighed. "We all have our ways of coping, Freiler. You have religion. I have the Corps. And if you or Bryn even thinks of inviting me to church on Sunday, I'll make sure you get reassigned to a destroyer in the Bering Strait."

"I wasn't going to say anything," Freiler replied, holding his hands out defensively.

"How much does this thing weigh?" DiNozzo asked, changing the subject as he kicked the rucksack with his toe. Tomblin glanced over at it and shrugged.

"Probably around thirty-five pounds," she said.

"That's what, half your body weight?"

She chuckled. "Closer to a third, but thanks," she joked. "That's nothing compared to what I wore when deployed. Between body armor, my helmet, weapon, and gear, I think I was carrying around more than half my weight." She shrugged a single shoulder as she peeled open one of the bandages. "Of course, I was also ten pounds heavier and a size smaller, so I'd say it's a pretty safe bet that I was in much better shape back then. Too much muscle has turned into fat."

DiNozzo shook his head in wonder before glancing over to see Ziva wearing an almost envious expression on her face. He wondered if her taking the job in Bahrain, which involved even more missions than Ruthven had been sending her on since he took over Mossad's highest office, would mean that she'd be resuming similar training. _Insane_, he thought, still shaking his head. _These women are all insane._

He turned back to Tomblin, who had finished cleaning up and bandaging her feet and was now pulling a towel and change of clothes out of the offending rucksack, and frowned slightly. "What'd you do to your arm?" he asked, realizing that this was the first time he had seen her in a shirt that didn't cover at least half of the area between her shoulder and her elbow.

The former Marine captain stopped what she was doing and glanced over to her left shoulder. "Oh," she said, her right hand lightly tracing the pattern of scars that decorated her skin as if having forgotten that they were there. "I was shot during my first deployment. That was back in the early days of Iraq, when we strapped our IDs to our left arms, before some Army preventive medicine doctor realized the connection between gunshot wounds to the left arm and the little white targets we were putting there. That's the same reason why soldiers now have subdued flags on their right shoulders when deployed instead of the bright ones they Velcro there in garrison." She abandoned the search through her rucksack to open a desk drawer, pulling out what appeared to be a paperweight. Upon closer examination, DiNozzo realized it was a military CAC—Common Access Card, which served as both an ID and key to the DoD's computer systems—with a clean hole right through the center. "They took me to an Army hospital, where the docs were so amused by this that they decided to save the card for me in this lovely block of… whatever this clear plastic stuff is."

"Lucky shot," DiNozzo commented. Tomblin shrugged.

"Lucky it didn't kill me," she countered. "Lucky I was reaching forward at that second. If my arm had been at my side, the bullet would have gone straight through my aorta. Heard of more than one person killed that way. Don't let the fact that they're terrorists convince you that they don't have some damn good snipers."

"Thought women weren't supposed to be in combat," he said, half-teasing. His eyes fell on a wooden plaque on the wall, with a unit insignia, picture of a platoon in full uniform and gear with weapons in front of what was probably one of Saddam's palaces, and a KA-BAR with 'Operation Iraqi Freedom' in gold on the blade. "This your KA-BAR?"

She snorted as she rose from her chair. "That's some ceremonial thing that KA-BAR came up with sell more knives. It's not even sharp." She pressed her thumb to the blade to prove the point. "My platoon got that for me at the end of my first deployment. No, I keep my knife on me at all times. Gibbs' rule nine, right?" She pulled a straight black, partially serrated blade from a sheath inside her uniform pants. "This is my KA-BAR."

Gibbs chose that moment to enter the room, an empty cardboard box in his hand. His eyebrows rose at the knife in the agent's hand, taking in her MARPAT pants, bandaged feet, and rucksack on the floor. "Rule nine," he finally said. She grinned as she replaced the knife in its sheath.

"I always have my knife," she promised.

"How far?" he asked, nodding to the rucksack.

"Twenty miles."

The eyebrows rose again. "Not bad, Captain," he said approvingly.

"You can join me next time, Gunny," she replied with a grin. She took a step to head toward the showers and grimaced at the reminder of how badly she had blistered and skinned her heels. "Then again, I doubt there will be a next time for quite a while."

"I don't ruck for fun," he replied. She shrugged.

"Wasn't exactly for fun," she said before leaving the office. Gibbs seemed to register the presence of the others in the office for the first time.

"Don't you people have something to do?" he asked as he crossed to Burley's desk, taking a seat in the chair. When he began picking things up one at a time and studying them before placing them in the box, DiNozzo realized what the other agent was doing. Remembering the explanation Gibbs gave when packing Pacci's things, about not wanting the family to be surprised by anything when they opened the box, he didn't need to ask why his boss was being so careful with everything.

"Right," he said instead, nudging Ziva toward the door. Before he left the office, he turned back and seemed to take in the small room for the first time: Freiler hunched over a computer in a very McGee-ish position, Gibbs in the chair behind the large desk in front of the picture window, everything neatly organized on Tomblin's desk. The diplomas of all three agents were lined up along one wall, everything hanging in each agent's space of a more personal nature: Tomblin had her Marine memorabilia and picture of her in dress blues with second lieutenant rank, standing next to a similarly-attired blond master sergeant who looked old enough to be her father; Freiler had what was obviously a family portrait with a smattering of perfect-looking blond-haired children and a second picture of two guys in suits, probably in their early twenties, standing in front of a building that looked similar enough to the Mormon temple outside DC that DiNozzo was pretty sure that that's what it was; Burley had a commemorative plaque from his time as agent afloat aboard the _U.S.S. Enterprise_ and a series of photos of buildings and landscapes from his travels, not a person to be seen in any of them. Even if he hadn't met any of the three agents, that room alone would have been enough to tell DiNozzo exactly who he was dealing with—the former Marine officer, the family man, the good agent who had seen it all and done it all, but had no one to share it with.

He couldn't help but think as he headed back to the conference room that Gibbs must have had it wrong the day before, when he declared that the reasons for Burley's murder were personal. By all accounts, the man had no personal life to speak of.


	18. Chapter 18

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 18**

_A/N: For my fellow DC residents, I hope you are all well and with power after Snowpocolypse 2010. It got me an extra day and a half off work; unfortunately, I was completely snowed in in that time and couldn't really enjoy it. And I slipped on the ice yesterday and pulled all sorts of muscles. I can't wait for spring._

_Moving onto a quick recap of the case: Special Agent Stan Burley was stabbed in his Bahrain apartment with a non-standard KA-BAR by someone right-handed, shorter than 5'3", proficient with a knife, and a knowledge of anatomy. Gibbs and the rest of the MCRT have traveled to Bahrain to investigate the crime, but so far, have no further leads from forensics and nothing jumping out on past cases. McGee is going through Burley's computer, DiNozzo is reviewing cases, Gibbs is clearing out Burley's desk, and Ziva is working with the local Mossad team regarding a terrorist camp in Yemen._

_

* * *

_

When Tony ushered her out of the field agents' office, Ziva returned upstairs to the office NCIS leased out to Mossad to house the team that the Kingdom of Bahrain likely didn't realize was in their country.

Of the three Mossad operatives 'stationed' in Bahrain, she had only met one of them, David Cohen, a former _Sayeret Matkal_ sergeant who had assisted her in the mission that allowed Dr. Alyse Aachen to be rescued when she was held hostage six months before. From the looks of things, he was in charge in the office, although they held no official titles and bore no ranks. Maybe it was because of his special forces experience, or maybe it was because he was the oldest of the three—and almost a decade younger than Ziva, which made her feel old and reminded her of her comment to Gibbs about being promoted young in Mossad—but the other two listened when he spoke, even when what he was saying had absolutely no relevance to anything.

"American comic books are not just a form of entertainment for children," he was saying. "There is a social commentary—"

"I would say that I need to introduce you to my partner, but I am afraid that you two would not stop," Ziva said sarcastically as she entered the office. The boyishly-handsome operative grinned at the interruption.

"I was wondering if you were going to show up today," he said teasingly, making a show of checking his watch. "We have been here since 0500."

"Perhaps if I had thought that you would get anything accomplished, I would have been here sooner," she deadpanned in reply. Elisheva Cremieux chuckled at her fellow operative's expense as she cleared the remnants of their breakfast from the table and gestured for the liaison officer to sit.

"You did not miss anything," the most recent addition to the team informed her. With her French-accented Hebrew, delicate features, and slender build, Cremieux looked like she would be more suited for a Hollywood romantic comedy, or as an international exchange student at a college campus, than espionage. According to her file, though, she was more than qualified for her current position. Orphaned before she was three years old, she was raised by an eccentric genius uncle in Paris until, frustrated by the rigorous academic schedule he had forced her to adhere to her entire life, as well as the growing anti-Semitism in France, she ran away from home at sixteen. With her academic background, she had no problem being accepted to the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, somehow staying under the radar until three months before graduation, when a very heated debate with a professor—who just happened to be a Nobel laureate—brought her to the attention of the president of the university, who was the brother of a high-ranking officer of _Aman_, the Israeli Intelligence Directorate. After spending her two years in uniform in _Aman_, she was successfully recruited by Mossad, becoming one of their youngest agents in the _Lochamah Psichologit_ Department.

What Ziva couldn't figure out was what an operative who specialized in psychological operations and deception was doing in a role more fit for a field intelligence operative.

"From the satellite feed, there has been no change to the traffic into or out of the training camp," Avrum Dardik said from his position behind a series of computer screens, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose as he spoke. If Cremieux was the stereotypical 'girl next door', Dardik was the type-cast nerdy Jewish comic relief, down to the round glasses and floppy dark hair under a yarmulke.

He could also hack into just about every secure system you could find for him to hack.

"So, Liaison Officer David," Cohen said with a grin, "as the ranking Mossad operative in the room, how would you like to proceed?"

She rolled her eyes at the irreverent operative, but knew that his question was legitimate. "Where is Agent Dunham?" she asked. "We should determine the extent NCIS wishes to be involved."

"Would that not be Agent DiNozzo's decision?" Cohen asked. Ziva narrowed her eyes slightly as she studied him for a moment.

"Agent DiNozzo is in Bahrain to investigate Agent Burley's murder," she finally said. "He is not here to take over Agent Burley's role."

"Yet." Ziva sighed at the younger man's insistence. She didn't bother asking him where he got his information; Mossad had never been shy about peeking around in the business of federal agencies around the globe.

"Regardless of Agent DiNozzo's role in Bahrain at the end of this investigation, Agent Burley had already given Agent Dunham reign over this matter," she said, hoping that would end Cohen's teasing hints about Tony's—and by extension, her—future in the Middle East. "As such, it is Agent Dunham we should be speaking to about this matter."

"I have no idea what you just said, but I think it involved me." Ziva turned quickly to the door of the large office, where the NCIS special agent in question was standing. "Unless 'Dunham' is something in Hebrew. If so, I apologize for the interruption." He grinned at his own words, letting Ziva know he wasn't too upset about the possibility of a group of Mossad operatives talking about him in his absence.

"We were discussing Yemen," Ziva said briefly, switching to English as she gestured to an empty chair around the table. "Specifically, the role NCIS wishes to have in bringing it in."

"Bringing it in?" Dunham asked with a frown as he sat, causing Ziva to frown as well as she searched her mind for the idiom she was looking for.

"Bringing it down?" she finally asked, earning a nod of understanding from the blond agent.

"For someone who has lived in Washington, DC for six years, your grasp of the English language is very amusing," Cohen teased from where he reclined in his chair. Ziva looked at him with a flat expression before speaking.

"I was wrong," she said. "You are worse than my partner."

"Yes, but I am not planning on sleeping with you," he said with a grin.

"I see at least twenty objects in this room I can use to kill you."

"I do not doubt it," Cohen replied, his grin widening at her obvious exasperation. "But most of those are closer to me than to you, and I am very good at my job."

"Besides," Cremieux said with a smile, her French accent making the word sound very sweet when compared to the Hebrew accents of her compatriots, "it only takes one bullet."

"It is amazing to me that anything is accomplished in this office," Ziva said with a sigh.

"I have been monitoring the activity of the camp," Dardik offered, glancing up from his computer screens, clearly oblivious to the conversation going on around him. "By changing the feeds between different satellites, I was able to create twenty-four hour access. Not all satellites are created equal, of course, and as such, the resolution is not always perfect—"

"Avrum," Cremieux interrupted. "Does this have a point?"

The younger man's already olive skin flushed. "I apologize," he murmured, and Ziva got the impression that this was a frequent occurrence. Probably as frequent as McGee's tangents that only he could understand. "With many of the older satellites, we cannot monitor the movements of people as we can with newer systems. The American satellites are particularly effective at this."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Dunham muttered. Ziva smiled slightly at the comment before returning her attention to Dardik.

"Since I could not focus on the movements of people, I turned my focus to vehicles," the Mossad analyst continued as if the interruption hadn't occurred. The images on the screens changed, revealing several motion shots of both trucks and Jeep-sized coming and going from the compound of squat, unremarkable buildings. Based on the differences in light and the quality of the images, they were from various times of the day and from the satellites of various nations. Ziva was very glad that Dardik, and his capabilities, were on her side.

"How does the amount of traffic compare to recent weeks?" she asked, still staring at the images of moving vehicles.

"The amount of traffic is fairly consistent," Dardik informed her, adjusting his glasses as he looked up. "The times of travel are not, however." He changed the images on the screens again, revealing more that appeared to be from satellites over Yemen during the night. "There is more movement at night than during the day in recent weeks, whereas previously there was more traffic in the morning."

"Keeping something secret," Dunham murmured thoughtfully, his attention focused on the moving vehicles in front of him. "What about the vehicles themselves? Cargo trucks versus personnel transport?"

Dardik frowned as his fingers began flying over the keyboard, performing a search that Ziva knew she couldn't begin to understand. "There is more cargo movement at night. The smaller vehicles move during the day."

"Which I don't understand, because Yemen is miserably hot when the sun's out, and I doubt those jeeps have AC," Dunham commented. "Okay, so they've increased movement of something in and out—"

Dardik frowned, appearing to not even hear Dunham. "That is odd," he interrupted thoughtfully. "There is more movement of the smaller vehicles out than in."

"Okay, so the jeeps are what they're moving in," Dunham said. "That answers that question."

Ziva frowned, trying to figure out what they could doing that would involve moving people, and what was so secretive about delivering jeeps. "Do we have anything on communications?"

"That is one of the things that got our attention in the first place," Dardik informed her. "Much like the American NSA, we have a search algorithm that can detect words used in combination—"

"Avrum," Cremieux interrupted again, this time sounding exasperated. She turned to Ziva. "Yes, we have been monitoring communication that goes into and out of the camp, most of it via email. Unfortunately, we have not managed to get an asset into the camp itself for closer surveillance."

"We do not have time for that," Ziva said.

"Finally," Cohen said, his voice laced with relief, even as he remained unmoving from his relaxed position. "Okay," he continued, pointing at the image of the jeep on Dardik's screen. "We are going to need one of those. And guns. Many of them."


	19. Chapter 19

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 19**

_A/N: In celebration of Snoverkill 2010 (thanks, **cfnumber1** for the name), which came immediately after Snopocalypse 2010, I've been getting a lot of writing done (not much else to do when you're literally snowed in), so I decided to give you guys another chapter. That, and I like this chapter and was looking forward to posting it._

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Gibbs had learned the hard way during his first deployment, to Panama, the importance of going through a person's belongings before packing them up to be sent home. He had unintentionally sent a wife—_widow_—her husband's collection of pictures of him with a dark-haired woman who was definitely not his blond and pregnant wife.

Probably not what a twenty-one-year-old woman needed to see after burying her Marine husband and facing raising a child alone.

Since then, he had made it a habit to go through a Marine's, and later agent's, things carefully, keeping a watch out for anything that the family wouldn't want to see. The GSMs that DiNozzo had given to Pacci, mostly as a joke, were returned to their rightful owner; Abby had gotten the picture of her and Kate showing off their new tattoos immediately after being inked.

Despite the mess on Burley's desk, it wasn't until Gibbs had gotten to the bottom of the top right drawer that he found his first surprise.

He blinked before his eyebrows rose in surprise at the photograph he saw there, and looked up involuntarily at Kim Tomblin's desk to find it still empty, its occupant still down in the showers after her morning ruck march. Although he had known from that march that she kept herself in shape, knowing that didn't have the same impact as seeing a photo of exactly how in shape she was. The former Marine was standing on a beach somewhere, wearing nothing but flip-flops, Oakley sunglasses, and a very small bikini that did absolutely nothing to hide a tiny body with toned arms and legs and six-pack abs. The long black hair that she usually kept pulled back in a ponytail was down and straight, and although he couldn't see her eyes through her black sunglasses, her mouth was set in a straight line of displeasure, which went perfectly with the two raised middle fingers she was displaying for the camera.

And that attitude, more so than the combat boots and MARPAT pants and rucking, spoke to the fact that she was a Marine.

He placed the photograph on the newly-cleared top of the desk as he continued going through the drawers, mostly killing time until Tomblin came back to the office. He didn't have to wait long; it was only a couple of minutes after he discovered the picture that the agent in question walked through the door, now in her normal working clothes of khakis and a plain tee-shirt, her hair still down and wet. "Freiler," Gibbs said, barely glancing up. "You look thirsty."

"Actually, I'm—." The junior agent cut himself off, realizing that Gibbs was telling him to get lost. "Parched," he finished. "I don't think a glass of water is going to do anything to this thirst. I'm going to go to the NEX to get one of those big bottles of Gatorade. Anyone want anything while I'm gone?"

"I think I'm going to need some more Band-Aids," Tomblin replied, her dark eyes still on Gibbs and narrowed in scrutiny. Freiler simply nodded as he fished the keys to his car out of his desk and left the office.

Gibbs didn't say anything as he picked up the photo and made his way to Tomblin's desk, placing it right in the middle of the organized space. Her eyes went down to it, and realizing what she was looking at, her face flushed, but he got the impression it was in anger, not embarrassment.

"The _bastard_," she finally said bitingly, snatching up the photo and quickly stuffing it in one of her desk drawers. "If he weren't already dead, I'd kill him myself."

"You didn't know he had that?"

"He told me he deleted it," she said, her voice still angry. She was glaring at the now-closed drawer where she had stashed the photo as she gathered her hair into a ponytail before twisting it around her hand into a bun.

"Why'd he have it in the first place?" She sighed angrily, her eyes still narrowed in a glare, focused somewhere in the past.

_She kept herself just on the edge of consciousness, the clean sand warm under her body and the sun beating down on top of it. A desert girl—well, more of a Corps brat, but she'll always consider the deserts of Washington her home—she was more comfortable in the searing dry heat of the Middle East than the humidity of Lejeune and Okinawa or the constant moisture of the _Roosevelt_._

_The sensation of raindrops on her skin—something that clearly didn't fit with lying on a warm beach—brought her from her heat-induced somnolence back to reality, and despite the Oakleys she was wearing, she had to squint against the bright sun to figure out what was going on. "Go to hell, Jeff," she murmured at the blond man shaking the water out of his blond hair to sprinkle her._

_"Pretty sure I just came from there."_

_She snorted and closed her eyes again, refusing to rise to the bait. "Iraq is hardly hell. You have infrastructure and a nice comfy clinic to practice in." She opened an eye to gauge his reaction before adding, "Pansy."_

_"You said you'll get in the water with me," he replied, ignoring the insult. "All you've done is take a nap in the sand."_

_"I said I'll go to the beach with you. Never said anything about getting in the fucking water."_

_"You do realize that I can just pick you up and toss you in the water, right?" he asked, still grinning. "Kimberley, you weigh less than my gear."_

_"Don't call me that," she said warningly. She snorted, but finally sat up. "Besides, I highly doubt it."_

_He shot her a quick grin before sitting next to her, idly picking grains of sand from the long black hair hanging down her back. "I'm glad you're here, Kim," he murmured, his voice serious. She turned to him, tilting her head down to look at him over the top of her sunglasses. The grin was gone, his blue eyes fixed somewhere over the water. _

_"What can I say?" she finally replied, intentionally keeping her voice light. "When I get an invite to sit on a beach… And you know how I feel about blonds."_

_"You know how I feel about Marines," he said in return, that wide smile again on his face. She quirked an eyebrow in his direction._

_"Well, you are in the Navy," she deadpanned. "You don't tell, and I won't ask."_

_"That's it, Tomblin, you're going in." Before she knew it, he was on his feet and she was in the air, slung over his shoulders in a fireman carry._

_"Cunningham, you fucking bastard, put me down!" she screamed, trying to loosen his hold on her legs enough to kick him. He ignored her and continued, his grip firm as he broke into a jog toward the water. "I swear to God, Jeff, I'll arrest you for assaulting a federal agent!"_

_He continued into the water, stopping when it was shin deep. He quickly whipped her off his shoulders, as if to about to toss her into the water, before gently lowering her to the ground. "There," he said triumphantly. "You're in the water."_

_"And you're an ass," she shot back. His grin widened before he abruptly cupped her jaw and tilted her head up to kiss her. Despite the lack of warning, she was barely caught off-guard; she had long ago learned to expect those impulsive actions that once confused the hell out of her. _

"_We should just stay," he said as he pulled away, his hand now on her head behind her ear, his fingers tangled in her hair. She looked up—at five feet tall, she was always looking up—to see him smiling down at her, his cheeks pink from the sun and his blue eyes shining. "I'm serious," he continued, even though she knew he wasn't. "We can just… not go back to work. Just stay here."_

_She rolled her eyes as she pulled away and began walking out of the water. For as tempting as that was… "Then I'd have to arrest you for being AWOL," she reminded him. She turned back to give him a teasing grin. "Besides, you'd last, what, a week before you'd want to grab a weapon and gear up? For a pediatrician, Jeff, you sure do like acting like a badass." She gave him another grin before heading back to her towel._

_She was just putting her flip-flops back on when she heard a familiar voice calling to her. "Hey, Kim, smile!"_

_She looked up in surprise, having completely forgotten that this wasn't just a vacation and that her supervisory field agent was around. "Stan, put the fucking camera down," she ordered in response to the crime scene camera in his hands. Burley just grinned wider as he raised the camera, and she scowled in his direction. Knowing that he wasn't going to miss an opportunity to tease her, she simply raised both hands to the level of her chest and flipped him off._

"We were working a case in Qatar," she finally said, raising her dark eyes to meet Gibbs' light ones. "A Marine was assaulted on R&R. We ended up wrapping it up pretty quickly and Stan decided to celebrate by hitting the beach and waiting until the last ferry to get back to Bahrain."

"You often traipse around on beaches with your boss?"

"What?" she asked with a frown. Realizing what he was asking, she chuckled slightly and shook her head. "I wasn't 'traipsing around' on the beach with Stan," she said. She opened the desk drawer and pulled out the picture and pointed at a figure in the background. "Any and all traipsing was going on with him. Lieutenant—well, now Lt. Commander—Jeff Cunningham, MD. He happened to be on R&R at the same time." She didn't bother to tell Gibbs that Jeff had emailed three months before to let her know his plans, and that she would have been in Qatar whether or not the corporal had gotten beaten up.

He squinted at the unfocused image of the swim-trunks clad man, blond hair barely short enough for regulations, a wide grin on his face and eyes fixed on Kim Tomblin's back. "How do you know him?" he finally asked.

"He's a pediatrician," she replied. "He was deployed with my unit, the second time around, as the battalion surgeon."

"And one thing led to another."

She flushed slightly. "It didn't start that way," she said, sounding slightly defensive. "There was always one officer on duty at night, but there was a group of us that, when not on duty, would get together to watch an episode of whichever TV show we had handy on DVD. We found out that Jeff had a pretty extensive DVD collection and invited him to join us. We became friends, and then…"

"And then more than friends."

She looked away. "He got dear johned by his fiancée about three months in. Normally, one would turn to alcohol in such situations, but with no alcohol handy…" She sighed and shrugged a shoulder. "At first, it was… convenient."

"And then it wasn't."

Tomblin gave a bitter chuckle. "No, it certainly was not. We managed to get our R&R together, spent almost two weeks together in Qatar, and everything went all whirlwind from there. We met each other's families…" Her voice trailed off again, trying to collect her thoughts. "Jeff is… Jeff is exactly the guy that I should probably end up marrying. He has a great sense of humor, he can keep up with me, he doesn't get weirded out by the fact that I can fire a gun better than he can, my parents love him, he doesn't take any of my shit, he looks pretty badass in MARPAT. He's a pediatrician, so you know he's great with kids…" She shook her head slightly, a sad smile on her face before looking up at Gibbs and pointing down the picture on her desk. "That was the last time we saw each other. Almost a year and a half ago."

"What happened?"

"We both love our jobs," Tomblin said, giving a single shoulder shrug. "He's at San Diego now, doing an infectious disease fellowship, and I am obviously in Bahrain, and neither of us wants to change anything."

"Still together?"

She shook her head. "Can't really stay together from halfway around the globe," she said. "We email occasionally, not often, but that's about it."

"Gonna need his contact information."

"To verify my story," she said with a crooked smile as she grabbed a pad of sticky-notes, her handwriting quick but precise before peeling it off and handing it to the senior agent. Gibbs stared down at the small piece of yellow paper for a long minute. _LCDR Jeff Cunningham, MD. Email: jeffreycunningham, navymed. mil. Pediatric Infectious Disease, Bob Wilson Naval Hospital. 717-546-6662._

He remembered the quick flirty smiles Tomblin gave McGee two years ago, when she was filling in for Ziva on the team, and then there was the Navy doctor she was deployed with… Some people never look further than work to find dates, and it was starting to look like Tomblin was one of those people. "You and Stan," he said, looking down at the paper for a minute before looking up at her, seeing a questioning and slightly wary look in her dark eyes. "Things ever… convenient, between the two of you?"

She flushed bright red, knowing what he was implying, and looked ready to deny it, but then changed her mind at the last second. "A few times," she admitted. "Alcohol and cases involving hotel rooms were always involved, and each time, we agreed it was a bad idea and that it wouldn't happen again. It's a direct violation of NCIS policy—"

"Not to mention rule twelve," Gibbs interrupted.

"Right," Tomblin muttered, not bothering to tell him that his disapproval of her breaking one of his rules didn't bother her nearly as much as the thoughts of what would happen if the bureaucrats who ran their agency found out. "It was stupid, it was careless, but it wasn't anything. We're both single, consenting adults, and it never affected our working relationship."

Gibbs nodded slightly, as if implying understanding, which was why Tomblin was completely floored with his next question and the eerily calm voice he spoke it in. "So why'd you kill him?"


	20. Chapter 20

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 20**

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NCIS Special Agent Kim Tomblin blinked in surprised disbelief at Gibbs' question, not even able to come up with a sound to respond to that. "Come again?" she finally settled with, aware that her voice was at least half an octave higher than normal.

"Why'd you kill Stan Burley?" he repeated, still sounding as if they were discussing the clear-yet-incredibly-hot weather just on the other side of the window.

"I didn't… Why the _fuck _would you even _think_ that?" She flushed at her own profanity, something that came out more than usual when she was upset or around Marines. Or when she wanted to catch people off-guard, not expecting to see a tiny girl who looked like a Japanese doll swear like a, well, Marine.

This clearly fell under the 'upset' category.

"Burley was never very comfortable about breaking rules," Gibbs continued, still eerily calm. Tomblin was sure that if he had a coffee cup in his hand, he'd be taking a sip from it right then. "He feel guilty about the affair, tell you he was going to report it?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "Nothing like that ever happened! We thought it was a bad idea, but if he had any gnawing feelings of guilt, he hid them pretty damn well. Besides, why would he do that? I'd get reassigned, probably, but he's the supervisory agent. He'd lose his job, without a doubt. He had a hell of a lot more to lose by sleeping with me than I did with him."

"Maybe it was the opposite, then," Gibbs theorized. This cool-and-collected Gibbs was giving her the creeps. She had seen many impressive interrogations that the former gunny had performed in the months she worked under him, but she never expected to be the one on the other side of the table, so to speak, and she was discovering why suspects talked. He was pretty fucking scary. "Maybe you were more into him than he was into you. He wanted to end it and you didn't agree."

"And so I killed him?" she asked in disbelief, giving her head a quick and emphatic shake. "First of all, that doesn't even make sense—"

"Murderers very rarely do." His words were sharp that time, and although she expected the change to happen at some point, it still threw her off guard.

"I've never killed anybody!" He raised his eyebrows, and she had to backtrack. "Okay, I've never _murdered_ anybody. And anybody I have killed, I did so because they were trying to kill me. Or one of my Marines, or innocent civilians—you know what I'm talking about!" She shook her head again. "And you're trying to throw me off, which I'll admit, you're doing a damn good job of. No, I was not more into Stan than he was into me. Neither of us was really all that 'into' the other." She frowned. "Besides, that scenario would require me to act like a dramatic and lovesick teenager, which I assure you, I am not. And why would you even suspect me?"

He ignored the question. "How many men were there?"

"What the hell?"

"Men you worked with and had affairs with."

Tomblin felt the blood rush to her face. "Fuck you, Gibbs," she said darkly. He ignored her again.

"We know there was Stan and your Navy doctor. Who else? McGee? Another Marine?"

"First of all, I never slept with McGee," she said quickly. "We had end-of-case drinks _once_, which consisted of two beers and a Metro ride home. _Alone._" She glared. "Stan and Jeff. That's it. Unless you want to count Mason Jones. We picked apples together on my grandfathers' farm when we were sixteen. I don't know if you consider that 'work', though."

"You sure that was it?"

She gave a short laugh. "I think I would know who I've slept with, Gibbs."

"Burley was at Qatar when you and Cunningham were playing doctor," he said, stabbing the picture that was still on the top of her desk. "He obviously knew what was going on. He find out the affair started in Iraq?"

"Yeah," she replied slowly, not knowing where this was going. "I was already getting ready to go to Qatar to see Jeff when Stan got the call about the corporal. He was obviously a little curious about the fact that I seemed to know where our case was taking us before he knew there was a case. He asked me about it on the drive down. I was honest, told him the whole story; didn't see the point in lying."

"Relationships in theater are against UCMJ."

She rolled her eyes. "First of all, they're letting married couples live together while deployed now, so I think those rules have been relaxed somewhat since you were in the Corps. Second, so what? Even if he felt the need to report me, what would anyone do about it? I don't know if you've noticed or not, Gibbs, but despite the ruck marches at ungodly hours of the morning, I'm not in the Corps anymore." Her eyes narrowed. "What's with the interest in my sex life, anyway?"

"Where'd you get your knife?"

She blinked at the sudden change in topic, but figured she couldn't complain; at least he was no longer focusing on who she had slept with. "My knife?" she echoed before pulling her KA-BAR from her sheath. "This knife?" She turned it quickly and expertly in her hand, the blade pointing toward her, offering the handle to Gibbs, which he took.

"Not your standard issue KA-BAR," he commented, studying the blade. It was exactly the knife Gracy had told him was most likely the murder weapon, a field/utility KA-BAR.

"No," she agreed. "It was a gift from my dad when I joined NROTC. My brothers all have the same knife. Different initials on the blade, though." She pointed to the base of the blade, right above the hilt, where the letters 'K.A.T.' were engraved in the metal. "NROTC midshipmen who want to join the Corps go through OCS in the summer between junior and senior year. My graduation date was the anniversary of the day my Papa, my dad's dad, got his medical discharge from the Corps. He went into Iwo Jima with two hands and came out with one; he was holding his KA-BAR in his left hand when it was shot off by a Japanese soldier. He came down to Quantico to see my graduation from OCS, along with my parents and Jiji—Grandpa Tojo, my mom's dad. I gave him the issued KA-BAR that day."

"Where is it now?"

She shrugged and glanced at her watch. "With the time zone differences, I'd say probably on the shelf in his mudroom. During the day, it's usually attached to his belt. He's an orchardist in Pateros, Washington, has a lot of use for a knife. I can give you his phone number if you want to call and ask. You might want to speak up, though. He's a bit hard of hearing, probably from very loud blasts during the war."

Gibbs ignored the sarcasm. "Stan was killed with a knife identical to this one. Maybe it was this one."

Her eyes widened briefly. "Well, it wasn't this one," she said, nodding to the knife. "Not unless someone took it from me between Saturday evening—the last time I saw Stan alive—and Monday morning, when I found him, without me noticing. And I think I would notice." Her eyes fixed on the knife for a long minute as Gibbs turned it in his hands. "I'm sure this isn't the only non-standard KA-BAR on base, Gibbs," she finally said.

"Probably not," he said. "Still gonna take it, though."

She shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"There's a lot the pathologists can learn from a body during autopsy," he said, again using that conversational tone. "Beyond the type of knife used."

"I know that," she replied, nodding to the diplomas lining the wall. "I have a B.S. in forensic science."

He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "For example, they can tell if a person is right-handed or left, can even tell the height of the attacker." He looked up at her. "You took anatomy courses while getting that degree in forensic science, right?"

"Yeah," she said slowly. "Gross anatomy. Over at the nursing college."

The next time he spoke, his voice was again cold and harsh, his eyes locked on hers in an intense stare. "The person who killed Stan was right-handed, shorter than five-three, knew anatomy, was comfortable around knives, and used a KA-BAR field/utility knife. I can only think of one person who meets all of those descriptions, and she's sitting right in front of me." Her eyes widened, but he didn't give her an opportunity to speak. "You had access to his apartment. He knew about your affair in Iraq. You were sleeping with him. You had means, motive, and opportunity, and I haven't heard an alibi yet."

"I don't have one," she admitted. "Sunday morning I went on a twenty mile run, with my iPod and Garmin watch as my only company. Then I went home, showered, took a nap, cleaned the apartment, and watched some TV before going to bed. I don't have anyone who can verify any of that." She shrugged hopelessly. "I don't know what to say, Gibbs, other than that I _didn't do it_. I don't have a single piece of objective evidence that I could use to convince you otherwise." She rubbed her eyes, suddenly feeling the exhaustion that had been building since Monday morning, and despite her best efforts to contain them, she felt hot tears falling down her cheeks. "Damn it," she muttered. "Damn it to hell. Of all the shit…" She looked up at him, her almond-shaped eyes watery and bloodshot. "What a fucking mess. My boss—my friend, probably my best friend—was murdered, and every single piece of evidence points to me. _I'd_ arrest me for this, which means you don't have a choice." She rose from her chair and took a deep, shaky breath. "I don't think you know where our holding cells are, Gibbs. I'll show you the way."


	21. Chapter 21

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 21**

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Special Agent Todd Freiler walked into his office and frowning, came to a complete stop in the doorway. Agent Gibbs was still packing up Stan's belongings, but Kim was nowhere to be seen. He mentally shrugged at his partner's absence, figuring she was running down a lead or over at the analyst division to get the latest security briefs, and covered the remaining few feet to his desk. "Would you like a cookie?" he asked Agent Gibbs, holding out the Tupperware container his wife had sent him with. Gibbs glanced up from his work and frowned slightly at the junior agent before nodding his head once.

"Thanks," he said as he took one of the offered chocolate chip cookies. He took a bite and set the remainder of the cookie on Stan's desk, getting back to the packing as if the interruption hadn't happened.

"Uh," Freiler began, trying to get a feel for what was going on. "Did Kim say anything about what she wanted me to do? With our cases?"

"Nope," Gibbs replied simply.

"Well, then, do you know where she went? I can just track her down and—"

"Holding cell," Gibbs interrupted, not even looking up. Freiler frowned.

"Holding cell?" he echoed. "Do we have a suspect for Stan's murder? Or did something happen on base and now she's booking the perp..." His voice trailed off, aware that he was beginning to ramble, and asking an endless litany of questions probably wasn't the best way to get caught up to speed. He knew he shouldn't have swung by the house while he was 'getting something to drink'; clearly something had happened, and he completely missed it. Although Kim not calling him to give him an update or order him to get back to work was a bit unusual.

"Agent Tomblin's been booked for the murder of Stan Burley," Gibbs said, finally looking at Freiler. The younger man simply stared back, trying to figure out if Gibbs was speaking a different language, because what he just said made absolutely no sense.

"Say what now?" he finally asked, grimacing at the fact that he was phrasing questions the same way his seventeen-year-old sister did.

"She was arrested for killing your boss," Gibbs repeated, and Freiler had to conclude that Gibbs was still speaking English.

"But... What? Why would Kim... And why would you think..." He stopped talking, realizing that he should probably articulate at least one complete question. "Did she make a confession?" he finally asked.

"Nope," Gibbs replied. "Claimed she didn't do it."

"So why do you think she did?"

"Stan was killed with the same type of knife Tomblin carries, by someone shorter than five-three who knows anatomy, is comfortable with knives, and had access to his apartment."

"Oh." Well, that certainly didn't sound good for Kim. "But that's just circumstantial. It's a lot of circumstantial, but nothing..." He shook his head quickly. "But that still doesn't make any sense. Why would Kim want to kill Stan?"

Gibbs looked up again and studied Freiler long enough to make the junior agent begin to feel nervous. "So you didn't know they were having an affair," the MCRT leader finally stated. Freiler blinked and wondered what kind of strange dream this was.

"They were what?" he finally asked dumbly.

"Sleeping together. Having sex. Were engaged in—"

"I get the picture," Freiler interrupted hastily, really wishing he didn't. "Are you sure?"

Gibbs shrugged a shoulder. "That's what Tomblin said."

"Oh." Now that he had had time to process it, he guessed it wasn't too surprising. He was married and loved his wife very much, but he wasn't blind, and Kim was a pretty attractive woman. Both Stan and Kim were single, and their work did a good job of isolating them from the rest of the Americans on the island. "But why would Kim kill him just because they were... having an affair?"

Gibbs shrugged again. "I don't know, Freiler, you tell me," he said. "Things get bad between them recently?"

"Well, I didn't even know they were involved, so I really wouldn't know," he admitted with a shrug. "I don't think so. They were acting the same as they always do."

"Which was how?"

"I don't know," Freiler said again. "Like Stan and Kim. They joked around, teased each other, teased me. Well, Kim did most of the teasing, but Stan always played along." He frowned. "How long have they been... involved?"

"Why?"

Freiler began to get the sensation that he was being interrogated, and decided that he wasn't too fond of it. He didn't have much experience in the interrogation room, on either side of the conversation—Stan told him it was because he was too nice to be effective at questioning suspects. Kim told him he was a terrible liar, and his attempts at being threatening were more entertaining than scary.

He had seen her in the interrogation room—actually, the first time he had seen her, when Stan was giving him a tour of the building on his first day, had been from the other side of the glass, in the observation bay. Despite the fact that she looked like you could pick her up and break her in half, she was pretty intimidating. It took him a week of nervously sitting in the office with her before he realized that her Interrogation personality was an act and that, while intense about her job, she was really a nice person. Bryn still teased him about the fact that he had ever been scared of Kim, but he was pretty sure that if his wife ever saw her when she was in all-out work mode, she'd be pretty scared, too. Bryn occasionally forgot that Kim had been a Marine; Freiler didn't need any reminders.

Freiler cleared his throat, bringing himself back to the moment and the question at hand. "About six months ago, right after Stan got back from Afghanistan, I guess things were a little tense between them, for a week or so," he admitted. He hadn't really thought much about it until Gibbs brought it up. "They had always carpooled, since before I came to the office, but a couple of times that week, they arrived separately, and Kim looked pretty annoyed about it, although she didn't say anything." He frowned, trying to sort out the events of that week, and wondered if, in retrospect, he was reading more into things than actually existed. "At one point, she got a personal call at work—"

"Not that unusual," Gibbs interrupted.

"It was with Kim," Freiler countered. "Her family lives in Washington state, she began her NCIS career there, and she was at Pendleton when she was in the Marine Corps—that's an eleven hour time difference to most people who would be making social calls. She took the call to the stairwell," he gestured at the back door to the office, which Gibbs hadn't noticed; it was mostly hidden behind Burley's desk, "and she looked a little upset when she came back. Stan asked if it was someone—he gave a name, but I don't remember it—and she told him to mind his own business." Freiler blushed slightly; that wasn't exactly what Kim had said, but he didn't like to swear.

"About six months ago?" Gibbs asked. Freiler shrugged.

"Sometime around then," he replied. "It was right after Stan got back from Afghanistan, I know that." He had only been gone for a few days, but the fall-out from that had lasted a lot longer. At the time, he had assumed Kim was upset with Stan for leaving her to deal with the State Department representative who came to 'assist'—which was more like hampering—their investigation, but now he couldn't help but wonder if something had happened with Stan while he was gone that somehow affected this personal relationship he hadn't realized they had.

Realizing that he had been standing this whole time, he all but collapsed into his chair, supporting his head with his hands for a long minute. Surely this wasn't really happening—in the span of a few days, he had lost his boss, had his office taken over by the team from Headquarters, and now his partner had been arrested for the crime because they had been having an affair that had been occurring right under his nose without him realizing it.

He had no idea how much time had passed since he walked into the office, but he was now pretty sure that instead of regretting stopping by the house on the way back to the office, he was regretting leaving the house to go back to the office. Things were simple with Bryn and the kids; at home, he could pretend that people weren't being murdered, weren't being arrested, that nobody was having relationships they shouldn't be having.

"Where is Agent Tomblin?" He looked up in surprise to see Ziva David standing in the doorway, the expression on her face a mixture between curiosity and determination. "I need to speak to her about Yemen."

"Holding cell," Gibbs replied. There was something different in his voice when he informed his Mossad liaison of that fact than there had been when he was speaking to Freiler; she was clearly not being interrogated.

The Israeli frowned. "Holding cell?" she echoed. Her eyes went to Freiler before returning to her boss. "She has been arrested for Burley's murder." Freiler wasn't quite sure if that was a question or a statement, the Hebrew accent making it difficult to determine her inflections.

"Yup," Gibbs replied calmly, and for a second, Freiler despised him for not being bothered by this.

"Did she do it?" Gibbs didn't bother vocalizing a reply to Officer David's question, choosing to let his expression speak for him.

And apparently, that was all the Mossad officer needed on that particular topic. "Who is assuming the responsibilities of the Bahrain office?" As one, both Gibbs and David turned to Freiler, whose eyes widened in alarm.

"You've got to be kidding," he blurted out before he could think of something more eloquent to say. He flushed at the words, but didn't bother trying to retract him. The idea of him becoming the highest-ranking NCIS agent in the Middle East was beyond laughable. He had only been in the office for a year, having come directly there after finishing his probationary period in San Diego.

Apparently, Gibbs agreed with him. "Gonna have to speak to Vance about that," he said calmly, and Freiler suspected he'd be working for Agent DiNozzo even sooner than he expected.

Officer David glanced at the gold Rolex she wore on her wrist and frowned. "It is not even 0400 in DC yet," she pointed out. Freiler looked at his own watch in alarm; he hadn't realized how close to noon it was becoming.

Gibbs shrugged, and Freiler didn't know if that meant that he didn't care about waking the director of NCIS, or if he didn't care about running things by said director. "Dunham'll be in charge of the Yemen operation in the meantime," he declared. Officer David nodded and turned to leave the office, literally running into Agent DiNozzo, who was trying to enter.

"Hi," he said with a grin, his eyes only on the Mossad liaison and his hands on her shoulders. She rolled her eyes, but Freiler didn't miss the small smile that tugged at her lips before ducking around him to leave the office, likely to return to the Mossad office up the stairs, and DiNozzo turned his attention to the MCRT's supervisory field agent before that grin turned into a thoughtful frown. "Where's Tomblin?" he asked, and Gibbs gave the same answer for the third time.

"Holding cell."

DiNozzo's frown became even more pronounced. "She do it?" he finally asked, and that was just as much as Freiler could take.

He rose from his chair more abruptly than even he would have thought possible, turning toward the door before reaching back to his desk and picking up the Tupperware container of Bryn's cookies. "Where are you going?" Agent Gibbs asked with a frown.

"To talk to Kim," he said, more tersely than he anticipated the words coming out. Both Gibbs and DiNozzo frowned, but Freiler didn't give them an opportunity to protest before he continued. "She's my partner," he said emphatically. "She's my partner, and she just lost her best friend, and I know you think she did it. Maybe she did; I don't know, but I do know that I wouldn't be much of a partner, or a friend, if I didn't at least try to talk to her." His eyes went from one man to the other, seeing identically blank expressions on both faces. "You can't tell me you wouldn't do the same thing." He left the office before either man could stop him.


	22. Chapter 22

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 22**

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_She could feel the burning in her lungs from the cold and dry air, but she refused to show any sort of weakness. She turned to her left, keeping on a path that only she knew. The sound of the footsteps of her pursuer running after her was close, and she consciously increased her pace._

_And then she came to an abrupt stop, trying to catch her breath as she bent at the waist, massaging her thighs with her hands. "Please tell me we're done," her running companion wheezed as he slowed to a walk, sounding as winded as she felt. "I don't know if you noticed or not, Tomblin, but it's beyond cold out here."_

_Captain Kim Tomblin chuckled as she straightened, blowing warm air on her gloved hands before speaking. "Well, we still have to go down," she joked. "But yeah, this is the top." She gestured around her. "The Methow Valley."_

_As if just realizing where he stood, Dr. Jeff Cunningham did a slow three-sixty, taking in the frost-covered land below the hilltop where they stood, the acres of orchards and expanses of brown brush, the river that was still flowing despite the below freezing temperature. "Wow," he finally said._

"_Yeah," Tomblin replied, a touch of pride in her voice._

"_No, I mean, wow that that's your entire home town," he said, pointing to the small collection of buildings below them. "You're a real hick, Kimberley."_

"_Don't call me that," she said automatically. She glared at his chuckle. "Besides, I'm a brat," she reminded him. "My entire family, though… They're a bunch of hicks." This time, she grinned at his laughter, not complaining when he wound his arms around her from the back and pressed her close to him. That was something she had noticed since returning from Iraq—he was very tactile, always putting his arms around her or reaching for her hand or kissing her without warning. She normally wasn't such a touchy-feely person, but with Jeff, she didn't mind so much. Besides, it _was_ cold out there, and he was warm. Still smiling at the gesture, she pointed as well as she could, indicating the cluster of farmhouses far outside the city limits. "That's where we were," she told him._

"_The Tomblin-Tojo Orchards," he said automatically, and it was her turn to chuckle. "Why here, though?" he asked after a long stretch of silence. "They could have gone anywhere…" His voice trailed off as she turned her head to look at him in surprise._

"_You mean Papa didn't explain it to you?" she asked, referring to her paternal grandfather, Corporal Jack Tomblin. When he shook his head, she continued. "The Tomblin family's had an orchard out here as long as anyone could remember," she began, having heard the story so many times she didn't even need to think about it. "The Tojos, on the other hand, lived on the other side of the mountains. They came over from Japan in the first wave of immigrants, in the mid-1800's, bought a little land, started growing strawberries, and after a generation or two, had the largest strawberry farm in the county." She turned her body—and by extension, his—toward the mountains to the west to indicate the area she was referring to. "And then Pearl Harbor happened, and the government took the Tojo farm, distributed the land to the other farmers in the area—the 'real-American' farmers—and the family was taken to Minidoka." She turned to gauge his reaction, seeing a blank look on his face. "It was a Japanese internment camp in Idaho," she explained._

"_Oh," he murmured, rubbing her arms in efforts of keeping her warm. "I didn't realize—"_

_She waved off the words of sympathy. "Jiji enlisted in the Corps from Minidoka when he turned seventeen," she continued—her maternal grandfather, former Staff Sergeant Daniel Tojo. "Papa had enlisted at the same time from here," a nod to the valley below them, "and they both went to Pendleton for boot. They were right next to each other alphabetically, were assigned as battle buddies."_

"_Japanese and white recruits together?" Jeff asked with a frown. She shrugged a shoulder._

"_Guess the Corps couldn't afford not to be colorblind, not when they realized how much they needed Japanese recruits," she said. She honestly didn't know the answer to that question; for her entire life, Papa and Jiji had been so similar she only rarely thought about the fact that they were different races. "Turned out they had a lot in common," she continued with her story. "A son of an orchardist and son of a strawberry farmer, both from Washington and both willing to do anything for their country, and they've been best friends since." Her eyes again fell on her family's orchard. "The Tomblin orchard was about sixty acres then—much smaller than the current two hundred—but sixty acres is still a pretty good size for an orchard, and with all the men going off to war, my great-grandfather couldn't keep up. It was Papa who suggested to him that he sponsor the Tojo family to get them out of Minidoka; they were farmers, after all, knew what to do. So my great-grandfather did, and the Tojos moved to Pateros, and they've been here ever since."_

"_And then?"_

_She shrugged. "And then the war was over, both Papa and Jiji moved back here, both got married, raised their kids together. Then Dad joined the Corps, did a tour in Vietnam, came home and married the girl literally right next door, and then came Kanten and Karsten, then another tour, then Kevan, and then me."_

"_Cute little Kimberley," he joked. She kicked his shins playfully before continuing. _

"_We were brats, but Mom and Dad sent us back here almost every summer, no matter where Dad was stationed at the time, and when Dad retired, it was never a question that this was where they would come back to."_

"_You really like it here, don't you?" Jeff asked. She nodded and turned in his arms, slipping her hands under the back of his shirt, exposing his skin there to the cold air and chuckling as he gasped in surprise._

"_It's the only place that was home," she said simply. She looked out at the valley again. "There were jet ski races with my brothers down in the lake, climbing apple trees, cliff jumping—"_

"_Cliff jumping?" he interrupted with a chuckle. "But you're so timid and cautious." She kicked him again, a small tap to his shin, and in response, he tilted his head down and kissed her._

"_You just do that to throw me off," Tomblin accused when they separated._

"_No," he said with a grin. "I do it because I want to."_

"_Can't always get what you want."_

"_I don't see why not." She looked up at him before again turning her head out to the valley. _

"_It's strangely beautiful," she said thoughtfully._

"_Nothing strange about it," Cunningham said in response, and when she looked back at him, found him staring right at her, a quirky grin on his face. "Just beautiful."_

_She snorted. "You're a dork." He grinned and kissed her again._

"_Think you're going to come back here?" he asked a minute later._

"_I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe, after all is said and done." Sometimes she imagined what it would be like to return to her family's orchard; other times, she couldn't imagine something she would want less. "I've always wanted to be a cop," she explained, "and a county of forty thousand, which has one sheriff and a handful of deputies, doesn't exactly seem like the best place to do that." She lapsed into silence again. "Maybe when I get the 'adrenaline-junkie' out of me."_

_He snorted. "So, when you're in your eighties?" She grinned up at him. "Come on," he said, reluctantly releasing her from his arms. "Let's get back down before we freeze to death up here." She nodded as she again blew on her hands._

"_Race you to the bottom," she said abruptly, and was off before he could comprehend the statement._

"_You cheat, Tomblin!" he called out in pursuit._

"_Of course I do!" she called back. "I've got three older brothers!"_

_---_

_ Kim left Jeff to tell war stories with Jiji after lunch to seek out her brother. Despite the fact that they had been at her family's orchard for four days, she hadn't spent any time alone with him. Fortunately, he was in the first place she looked._

_ Kevan Tomblin stood up from where he was crouched behind the partially-dismantled snowmobile when the volume of the music from his stereo decreased significantly, earning a sweet smile from his younger sister. "I was listening to that," he protested. "And what are you doing going through my fridge? Hey! Kim! That's my beer!"_

_ Kim chuckled as she popped open the can of beer and took a long drink. "I can't believe you drink this crap," she said, making a face at the can._

_ "Well, that's my crap," the brawny former Marine shot back. "If you don't like it, don't drink it." Kim just smiled at him again before taking another drink. "Ladies and gentlemen, my polite and dainty little sister," he muttered as he returned to the snowmobile. _

_ Kim propped herself up on his workbench and watched her brother as she continued to sip from his beer. There was nothing about him that didn't scream 'jarhead', from the arms that were solid muscle and thicker than her thighs and covered in tattoos, to the high-and-tight haircut, to the callouses on his fingers from working as a mechanic since he was big enough to hold a wrench._

_ Finally, after several long minutes of the siblings not speaking, he glanced up again, setting aside his tools and grabbing a rag to begin wiping his hands. "Boyfriend bored out of his mind yet?" he asked as he reached into the equipment hangar's refrigerator for his own can of beer._

_ "He's at Jiji's, swapping war stories." Kevan chuckled._

_ "You'd think World War II was a vacation for him, the way he likes to reminisce about it," he commented._

_ "Having happy war memories sure beats the alternative," she pointed out._

_ "I'll drink to that," Kevan murmured in response, and they clicked their cans together in a toast before lapsing into thoughtful silence._

_ "Going to the VFW dinner tonight?" Kim asked abruptly._

_ "'Course," he replied, giving her a quick grin and nudge with his elbow. "My baby sister's back from Iraq. And without getting shot this time." She chuckled even as her right hand rubbed her left shoulder, although there was nothing to feel there under the layers of her shirt and jacket. "The boyfriend going?"_

_ "Yeah," she answered. "Although he teases me for being a member of the VFW."_

"_You tell the boy you've been going to VFW gatherings since you were born?" he asked a grin. It was like having fifty extra uncles, the way the men of the local Veterans of Foreign Wars always doted, in their own way, on the Tomblin kids as they grew up._

"_He has a name, Kev," Kim replied, rolling her eyes and ignoring his question. "Although for a leatherneck like you, that'll be 'Doctor' or 'Lieutenant'."_

_ "Oh, you're so fucking cute, Kim."_

_ "I know." He just chuckled and shook his head slowly as he took another drink from the can._

_ "So what happens next?"_

_ She looked at him askance. "I guess that would be the VFW dinner," she said slowly._

_ "With the boy."_

_ "Well, since he is a veteran of a foreign war, I was thinking, probably the VFW dinner."_

_ Kevan rolled his eyes. "You're not as tough as you like people to think you are."_

_ "Don't know what you're talking about, Kev. I'm fucking unbreakable."_

_ He reached across her body to tap the upper part of her left arm. "Not quite."_

_ "A little dinged. Not broken." She refused to meet his eye as she drained the remainder of her beer. _

_ "He's good for you," Kevan finally said._

_ "You spent what, one meal with him?" Kim scoffed._

_ "He's the only guy I've ever seen who calls you out on your shit," he pointed out. "Besides, he's a doctor; Mom loves him." She snorted at his grin. _

_"His fiancee dumped him while we were in Iraq," she said after another long stretch of silence. "I'm the fucking rebound." Realizing the double entendre of her words, she smiled and added, "No pun intended."_

_"Did not need to hear that," he grumbled, taking another pull from his beer. "I'm serious, Kim," he said, and when she turned her head, she saw that he was. "You're not just a rebound. He loves you."_

_ "Three weeks ago, we were listening for incoming mortar shells," she reminded him. "It's just a reaction. Once things go back to normal…" Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head, not sure if she even wanted to think about the end of that sentence._

_ "It's more than that," Kevan argued. "I see the way he looks at you." She looked at her older brother in surprise. "And I see the way you look at him, too. What are you so fucking afraid of?"_

_ For a long minute, she didn't answer him, and when she did speak, she wasn't sure if it was an answer at all. "I'm leaving the Corps, starting terminal leave when I get back to Pendleton. I'm getting my stuff out of storage, and then it's over to Silverdale for my probationary period as an NCIS special agent." She looked over at her brother. "And I haven't told Jeff yet."_

---

"Kim." Tomblin's eyes flew open at the sound of her name, sitting up from where she was reclined on the hard mattress of the holding cell so quickly that it made her head spin. She blinked in surprise at who she saw there, half expecting to see her brother leaning against the bars with that 'devil-may-care' grin of his.

"Freiler," she finally greeted, making her way off the bed to the bars.

"Bryn made cookies," he said, offering the container. She looked down at it for a long minute before a very small smile crossed her lips.

"No offense, Freiler," she finally said, looking up at him. "But Bryn's a terrible baker."

"I know," he replied with a smile of his own as he lowered the plastic box. "Why do you think I boxed them up and brought them in? There are people here who don't know about my wife's lack of baking skills."

"You are more devious than I've given you credit for," Tomblin said with approval. "You get any of them to take any?"

"Gibbs took one."

"Impressive."

Freiler smiled slightly. "How are you holding up?" he finally asked.

Tomblin's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You're not going to ask me if I did it?"

"Nope," he said, taking a seat on the floor. Following suit, Tomblin also slid down the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. "There's no point," he continued. "No matter what, you have to say 'no', because I'm still an NCIS agent and have to report everything you say."

"Not only devious, but smart," she sighed. "I didn't, by the way."

"I know." Now it was his turn to sigh. "Gibbs told me about the evidence."

"Yeah," she said. "I'm pretty much fucked." She grimaced slightly, knowing how the junior agent felt about profanity. "Sorry. And I'm guessing he also told you that I slept with Stan."

"He said you guys were having an affair."

Tomblin gave a bitter laugh. "I wouldn't say that," she argued. "It was three separate times over the course of two years. Well, a year. The first time wasn't until I'd been at the office for about six months, and the last time was about nine months ago." She looked over at Freiler and could tell that he was fighting to keep the disapproving look from his face. "Don't judge, Freiler," she said warningly. "Just because you've only slept with one woman, and the first time was on your wedding night, doesn't mean you can expect the rest of us to be as perfect as you." She grimaced again. "Sorry. It's just—"

"It's okay," he said quickly. "Hasn't exactly been a normal week for any of us." The two of them sat quietly for several long minutes before he spoke again. "Was he seeing anyone else?"

"In the last two years?"

"No. Well, yes. I mean, more recently." She shook her head slowly.

"I don't know," she finally said. "I've actually wondered that, especially—"

"After Afghanistan."

She nodded. "So I wasn't the only one who thought he was acting a little off." She looked away, her eyes not fixed on anything. "I've tried to figure out who it could be, but I have no idea. I don't even know where he would meet anyone." She rolled her eyes. "I certainly haven't figured that one out," she muttered sarcastically, and despite himself, Freiler smiled slightly at her self-deprecating humor.

"That week," he said after another long stretch of silence. "You got a phone call and took it to the stairs." She stiffened at the question she knew was coming. "Stan asked if it was someone—"

"Cunningham," she interrupted. "And yes, that's who it was."

"Who's—"

"Dr. Jeff Cunningham," she replied, anticipating his question. "Lieutenant Commander Jeff Cunningham. He's a pediatric infectious disease fellow at San Diego."

"How—"

"He was my battalion surgeon during my second deployment."

"What—"

_I… Just… Be careful, Kimberley. _

_Don't call me that. _

"That, I'm not answering." She looked over at him and shook her head. "It didn't have anything to do with Stan."

Freiler studied his team's senior field agent for a long minute before finally nodding. "Okay," he said. "Kim," he continued emphatically. "We're going to figure out who did this, and you'll be out of here before you know it."

Her lips curled upwards in a slight smile, but she didn't say anything in response. Finally, she turned her head away, resting her temple on her knee. Curled up like that, her hair hanging in tangles down her back, she looked absolutely tiny and thoroughly defeated, and he had to fight to reconcile that image with the woman he had been working with for the past year, a woman who stared down men twice her size and later joked about it, who strapped on thirty-five pounds of weight and went running.

There was no way the woman in the holding cell was strong enough to do any of those things.


	23. Chapter 23

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 23**

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Even after all her years in Mossad, seeing what the agency was capable of, Ziva David was impressed with how quickly the mission to Yemen was organized.

And how quickly it was going to go down. She never liked admitting feeling overwhelmed, even to herself, but something didn't feel right about this mission, and she didn't have enough time to figure out exactly what that was.

Using his existing cover as an American ex-patriot and opportunistic 'businessman' trying to go around the sanctions many nations around the globe set on Yemen, Dunham booked them on a series of cargo ships from Bahrain to the United Arab Emirates, and from UAE to Yemen, as Middle Eastern consultants.

The first ship left port in Bahrain at 0100, which meant they had to board by 2300—in ten hours.

Once they were in Yemen, one of Dunham's contacts, whom he had already spoken with, would pick them up and take them north, toward the terrorist camp. They should arrive at their destination by mid-afternoon, one and a half days after they left, where Avrum Dardik and Chad Dunham would set-up surveillance and communications. After midnight, the other three Mossad operatives—Ziva, David Cohen, and Elisheva Cremieux—would take a jeep, identical to the ones that had been seen coming and going from the terrorist camp, into enemy territory.

And then, with their skills and no small amount of luck, they would get in and capture Lieutenant Hoskins and as many others as possible and figure out just who was behind all of this and if it was in any way related to Agent Burley's murder.

Ziva was in the midst of discussing options for communications with Dardik when Cohen cleared his throat. "I think someone is here to try to sweep you off your feet," he said teasingly in Hebrew, nodding toward the door. Ziva glanced up to see Tony leaning against the threshold of the open door with a smirk on his face.

"Sweeping her off her feet gets me nothing but a beating in the gym," he joked, also in Hebrew. Cohen just grinned, not even have the graces to look embarrassed. "Two and a half years," Tony continued, switching to English. "Pick up a few things in that time." He turned to Ziva. "Can I talk to you?"

Her eyes went from Tony to Dardik and back again. "Sure," she said. "Stairwell?" He nodded and crossed the room to follow her into the back stairwell.

The door had barely closed before his hands were on her jaw, his entire body leaning into her, kissing her with all he had, and by the time Ziva registered what was happening, her back was to the wall, one hand on his hip and the other on his chest. "Tony," she murmured when they came up for air. "This is not talking."

He grinned before kissing her again. "I know," he said when they separated. He sighed as he rested his forehead against hers, all trace of the grin gone. "Do you think Tomblin did it?"

Ziva looked at him quizzically; that was not the question she was expecting. "Gibbs does," she finally answered. "You do not?"

"It seems… too neat."

"Sometimes crimes are, Tony."

"But it's all circumstantial." She frowned and opened her mouth to argue, but he didn't give her the opportunity. "Yeah, I know, all you need is something circumstantial and a good prosecutor to convict someone, but that much circumstantial and nothing concrete—"

"Her fingerprints and hair were all over the apartment," Ziva reminded him.

"Even if she didn't have a key that she admitted to using on a fairly regular basis, she was the one who found him in his apartment. That's pretty much the basic definition of exclusion criteria."

"What about 'they always return to the scene of the crime'?" Ziva argued. "And it would have looked more suspicious if she arrived at work without Burley, when Freiler knew that they always drove together." He still looked unconvinced. "The forensics lab has not yet processed Tomblin's knife. It is possible that that might yield hard evidence."

"Yeah."

She looked up at him and pressed her hand to his jaw. "Tony," she said, her voice low. "Why does this bother you?"

She didn't know how long they stood there silently, unmoving, before he spoke. "You like to think you know someone."

Ziva frowned. "You did not ever work directly with Agent Tomblin."

"Well, no," Tony admitted. "But she was just on the other side of the divider for those months. I listened to her tell stories, and tease the McGeek—and she was really good at that, by the way—and watched her leave to go to crime scenes… And then she worked here, with Burley, for two years…"

"And slept with him," Ziva continued, thinking she knew where this was going. "Tony, I—"

"No," he interrupted, shaking his head emphatically. "No, this has nothing to do with you. Ziva." With both hands, he again lifted her head, giving her no choice but to look at him directly. "I trust you, with everything. I'm not worried that you're going to pull a knife on me the next time we disagree on something." A very slight smile crossed his lips. "We've gotten in some pretty amazing fights, and you haven't threatened my life yet. Well, you've threatened my life, but just with words, there haven't been any weapons involved—"

"Tony," Ziva interrupted with a smile. "If I had any intention of killing you, it would have happened already."

"Thanks. I think." She chuckled, resting her hands on his chest. "It's just… I thought I knew her."

"Like you thought you knew Agent Lee." At the way he closed his eyes, she knew that that time, she got it right.

"Maybe I'm not ready to lead a team," he said as his eyes opened. "If I can't read an agent well enough—"

"Then by that definition, Gibbs is not ready to lead a team, either," she said, cutting him off. He looked at her quizzically. "You listened to Kim across the divider, but she was working directly under Gibbs. As was Michelle."

He had to think about that for a moment before she saw understanding cross his features. "How is it that you always know how to make me feel better?" he asked, only half-joking.

"Because I know you," she said simply. "And because I know you, I know that you are ready to lead a team." She studied him for a minute. "And because I know you, I know that you are not giving up on this case until you are satisfied."

"No," he agreed. "I'm not." He continued to look in her eyes for a long minute, and she didn't know what he saw there, but whatever it was, it made him tilt his head down and kiss her again. "So does this mean that I should be checking out real estate in Bahrain while you're gone?"

She snorted lightly. "I think we have already established that we have different definitions of what is an acceptable apartment."

"Okay, I guess I'll save that for when you get back," he joked, and she tried not to visibly flinch at what she heard under those words.

_If you get back_.

"Hey," he said, suddenly looking concerned. "What's wrong?"

She wondered if she would ever cease to be amazed—or concerned—at the fact that he could read her so well. "It is nothing," she replied, trying to sound reassuring. The frown on his face told her that she didn't succeed.

"It's the mission," he said after a certain amount of silent scrutiny. "You're not sure about the mission."

"It is… very quickly put together," she finally said. "And with a team I have no experience with."

"Ziva—"

"I have gone on missions with less preparation," she said quickly, not wanting to hear his concerns, not wanting to get into an argument before she left.

He didn't say anything, but she knew he still wasn't convinced. "What time are you leaving?" he asked, his voice low.

"Around 2200," she replied. He nodded slightly, his eyes not leaving hers as he smoothed back her ponytailed hair.

"Let's do dinner before you leave, then," he said. "I'll come up and get you at, say, 1700?"

"Five pm?" Ziva asked, eyebrows raised. "That is an early dinner."

"Well," he said slowly, a suggestive look on his face, "I just want to be sure there's enough time for a proper send-off."

"Mmm," she replied with a smile. "I like the sound of that." She laced her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. "I should probably go back in there," she said reluctantly a minute later.

"Yeah," he said, just as reluctant. He went in for one last kiss before pulling away, straightening as he lead the way through the door and back into the office of the Mossad operatives. He gave her one last glance before turning to exit the office through the other door, but Ziva's hand on his stopped him in his tracks.

"Seventeen hundred," she said, her eyes shining with promise.

"I'll see you then."


	24. Chapter 24

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 24**

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It was all wrong. Gibbs knew that in his gut, and he could count on one hand the number of times his gut had proved him wrong.

"Boss?" He looked up at the sound of his unofficial title and frowned slightly at the expression on McGee's face. "Do you need something? You've been standing in the doorway for a long time now, uh, not moving."

He stared at his junior agent for a long minute. "Need to know everything about Tomblin," he finally said. There was something that wasn't adding up, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Maybe it was the fact that her story about what happened in Qatar actually made sense, or the resigned way she led him to the holding cells to allow him to book her, or that her story never changed the entire time he was questioning her.

Or maybe it was the way she looked down and to the left when he asked if she had ever been involved with anyone else she worked with.

"Everything, Boss?" McGee asked.

"If you can get her third grade report card, use that, too."

"Right." He turned to leave the conference room when McGee's voice stopped him. "Uh, Boss? You don't really think…" the junior agent's voice trailed off at the look on Gibbs' face. "I'll get right on it," he said quickly.

"You do that, McGee," Gibbs muttered as he returned to the field agent office right next door.

He had finished packing up Burley's belongings earlier, and other than the picture of Tomblin in a bikini, hadn't found anything out of the ordinary for a special agent's workspace. Freiler was still down in the holding cells talking to Tomblin, which gave him the room to himself.

Gibbs didn't hesitate as he crossed the room to Tomblin's desk, seeing her computer still on from when she walked in that morning, the standard NCIS screen saver of scrolling alerts on the screen. He bumped the mouse, and saw that while she hadn't changed the screen saver—he didn't even know, nor care, if it _was_ possible to change the screen saver on the NCIS computers—the desktop wasn't the plain blue he was accustomed to seeing on his own computer every day, but a black background with a centered picture, a 'motivational poster'-type image of the famous Iwo Jima picture over the words '_USMC: Providing the enemies of America an opportunity to die for their countries since 1775_'. "Oorah, Captain," he murmured in approval.

Remembering her comment about her grandfather losing his hand and his knife at Iwo Jima, he knew that for as much as that picture meant for him, it meant something different for her.

He knew that in addition to her own service, Tomblin's father—and as he learned earlier that day, her grandfather—had been in the Corps, and that Marine discipline was clearly displayed in how organized her desktop was, with hardly anything out of place and no extraneous clutter. With the exception of the changed background on her computer monitor, there weren't any personal touches, no pictures of family or memorabilia from school or service. The only things that didn't belong were the picture of her from Stan's desk and what appeared to be a military CAC preserved in some sort of clear plastic.

The center drawer was just as he would expect from the desktop: pens, pencils, paperclips, staples, everything exactly where it should be and nothing out of place. The bottom of the two side drawers had files on the front half—probably active cases, but he'd have to go through them to be sure—and a pair of running shoes and clean gym clothes in the back.

The top drawer—which was locked but easily picked—was the only place without that Marine-taught organization; it appeared that she just tossed everything that didn't fit elsewhere in this drawer, with her Sig and credentials resting on top. There were a few pieces of mail that had been delivered to the office instead of her apartment and a small red book entitled "The Little Book of Stress", which appeared to be humorous instructions for increasing the stress in one's life—he got a chuckle out of _Forgiving is a sign of weakness. People will despise you for it._

Considering the circumstances, the page that read _Keep a photo of a past lover somewhere your current love is bound to find it_ was significantly less funny.

Putting the book aside, he found both of her passports—the blue tourist passport and burgundy official passport, which had a few stamps from Canada at the beginning of her NCIS career, the rest for various countries throughout the Middle East—an absentee voter registration card from Okanogan County, Washington; a small black Mag-lite; a deck of cards; and a few other sundry items that he doubted had anything to do with the case.

The very back of the drawer revealed a few things he didn't expect to see—a small rubber duck in what looked like it was supposed to be a Navy uniform with a stethoscope around its neck; a ball cap with the globe and anchor of the Corps on the front at the words 'DEATH CHEATER' on the back, a phrase Gibbs would always associate with Navy medical personnel attached to Marine units; and a photograph of a man in desert MARPAT kneeling on the ground, an M16 slung across his back, a serious expression on his face, and a stethoscope in his ears and held to a patient who was lying flat, appearing small enough to be a kid.

He was pretty sure Dr. Jeff Cunningham was more than just a war-time fling.

As he replaced the items in the drawer and closed it again, he glanced at his watch and subtracted eight hours, determining that it was finally an acceptable time to be calling the east coast, and grabbed the receiver from Tomblin's desk phone, dialing the number for the director's office. _"NCIS, Director Vance's office,"_ a female voice greeted him, and he frowned as he realized he didn't know the name of Vance's new secretary.

"Gibbs," he said. "Need to speak to the Director."

_"Please hold, Agent Gibbs."_ He was pretty sure that the new secretary, whatever her name was, must have told Vance who was on the line, because a good five minutes had gone by before the hold music stopped abruptly.

_"Gibbs,"_ Vance said simply. _"How's Bahrain?"_

"Hot," the special agent replied sarcastically, doing not bothering to do anything to keep anything the irritation out of his voice. "Got a situation."

_"And that would be?"_

"Arrested Agent Tomblin for Agent Burley's murder."

Not surprisingly, those words were met with almost a full minute of silence. _"She do it?"_ Vance finally asked, and Gibbs had to roll his eyes.

"No, Director, I thought it would be fun to see how many agents from one office we could take out of the workplace at once," he replied sarcastically. "Don't have a confession and still running some evidence, but everything so far points to her."

_"When do you anticipate coming home?"_

"Like I said, still running evidence," Gibbs said as an answer. "Need a SAC in Bahrain in the meantime."

_"After you, DiNozzo has the most seniority,"_ Vance said after thinking about it for a few seconds. _"Make him the interim SAC. Assuming he doesn't screw up too badly, I'll make it permanent."_

"That's all I needed."

_"I'll go ahead and talk to Director Ruthven,"_ Vance continued as if Gibbs hadn't spoken. _"Figure it'll probably be nice to give him some heads-up and make him think that reassigning Officer David to Bahrain was his idea."_ Gibbs had to smile at that; for as much as Vance irritated him, he sure did know how to grease the wheels with agencies around the globe.

Even though the thought of losing two of his agents at once made him feel like someone just punched him in the gut.

_"You need anything else from here?"_ the director asked when Gibbs didn't say anything further.

"Nope," he answered. "Got it covered."

_"I'll let you get back to it, then. Good luck, Gibbs."_

Gibbs decided he liked it much better when he was the one doing the hanging-up, not the one being hung-up on.

He consulted his watch again and frowned, trying to determine if it was still too early to try to call the west coast. He knew doctors woke up early; Gracy rarely slept past 0430, but she also worked out for two hours before going to work. He ultimately decided that he might as well call—if he woke the pediatrician from sleep, so be it.

Then again, Gracy also turned off her pager and silenced her BlackBerry when she wasn't on call, stating that her sleep was more important than anyone trying to get hold of her when she wasn't working, so there was a good chance that calling Cunningham wouldn't wake him.

He was pretty sure that Cunningham must completely turn off his phone when he went to bed, because the call went directly to voicemail. _"You've reached Jeff Cunningham. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you,"_ the message greeted him. Although he usually didn't like to leave voicemail, he figured that with the time zone differences, it might be the easiest way to ensure that he spoke to the lieutenant commander.

"This is Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. Need to speak to you about Agent Kim Tomblin." He left his cell phone number and hung up, trying to figure out what came next. Remembering the files in Tomblin's bottom desk drawer and wondering what connection they could possibly have to the case, he opened the drawer again and began looking.

"Hey, Boss." He looked up to see DiNozzo standing in the doorway, some indeterminate amount of time later. "I've been going through the original case notes from Hoskins' 'disappearance'—"

"You're off Burley's case," Gibbs interrupted. He nodded toward Burley's desk, now cleared. "Got a new job for you."

"Vance is giving me Bahrain," the senior field agent stated, his voice oddly flat at the news and his gaze fixed on the empty desk.

"Interim SAC," Gibbs replied with a nod. DiNozzo nodded, silently staring at the desk for a few more beats before turning back to Gibbs.

"You're still gonna want me on the case," he finally said. "Ziva and the rest of the cast of _Fiddler on the Roof_ are taking their show on the road."

Gibbs couldn't keep himself from smiling at DiNozzo's usual roundabout ways of stating things. "_Fiddler on the Roof_?" he asked. DiNozzo shrugged a shoulder.

"First Jewish movie that popped into my head," he said. "Coulda gone with _Schindler's List_, but figured that was a bit too heavy."

"When?"

"Tonight." DiNozzo glanced at his watch. "Taking Ziva out to dinner at 1700."

"Early dinner."

"Well, you know." Gibbs glanced up at his senior field agent—former senior field agent?—to see a smirk on his face, and rolled his eyes.

"Too much information, DiNozzo," he muttered.

"Hey, I didn't say anything. You inferred."

"Didn't know you knew what 'inferred' meant." He nodded to the file in DiNozzo's hand. "What'd you find?"

He didn't even open the file as he began his report. "Second Lieutenant Jeremiah Hoskins was the XO of an MP company, part of a reserve unit currently assigned to Camp Arifjan, Kuwait, was an officer of the San Diego Police Department in his real life. Married, had two kids when he disappeared, one died after that." Gibbs flinched at the words, never enjoying hearing about things happening to kids, regardless of what their parents had done. "He owns a house in San Diego, wife and kid are still there. In February, he didn't report for duty, search of the camp didn't reveal anything. There wasn't anything missing from his unit in the pre-fabricated concrete buildings; his roommate in the PCB didn't know anything."

"Anything on the roommate?"

DiNozzo shook his head. "Second Lieutenant Nicholas Kaufman, commands a maintenance platoon, by all accounts, a perfectly squared-away Marine."

"As opposed to Hoskins."

"Right as always, Boss. Haven't talked to the CO directly yet—but I will—but when he was interviewed in February, was reluctant to say anything bad about Hoskins, worried it would be taken the wrong way because he's Muslim."

"Not your typical Muslim name."

"African-American Muslim, converted when he was a student at UC-Berkeley."

"Converts tend to be more radical."

"Prayed five times a day, pointed to Mecca," DiNozzo confirmed.

"Meant he joined the Corps after he converted," Gibbs commented. He thought about that for a minute before saying, "Mossad was already pretty confident that Hoskins and the American in Yemen were the same person."

DiNozzo nodded. "Right. Didn't really find anything new," he admitted.

"He ever work with Burley?"

"Not that I've found so far, Boss, but I'll keep looking," the interim SAC promised. He glanced at his watch, a ghost of a smile on his face. "First thing tomorrow. I'm clocking out for the night."


	25. Chapter 25

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 25**

* * *

Ziva glanced up as she heard the office door opening, a ghost of a smile on her face. "I'm here to sweep you off your feet," Tony said in Hebrew, a teasing grin on his face. Cohen chuckled at the words.

"I do not believe you have met everyone," Ziva said. If Vance was serious about him taking over in Bahrain, she'd be moving into that Mossad office, and Tony would need to become familiar with the people she worked with. "The one who thinks he is a comedian is David Cohen, behind the computer is Avrum Dardik, and sharpening her knife is Elisheva Cremieux."

"Shava," Cremieux introduced with a flirty smile, setting her knife on the table to offer her hand to Tony, earning her one of his wide, charming grins in reply. Ziva just rolled her eyes; committed relationship or not, Tony liked to flirt and was good at it. She was pretty sure that the young Mossad operative, with her shiny black hair cascading over her shoulders and large brown eyes—not to mention trim, twenty-three-year-old body—was just as good.

"Shava, it is never a good idea to flirt with a _metsada_ operative's lover," Cohen joked. "Especially in front of her."

"Thank you, Cohen," Ziva said dryly before turning to Tony. "Are you ready?"

"Ready when you are," he replied, and the smile he gave Cremieux had nothing on the one he gave Ziva. He took her hand as she joined him in the doorway, pulling her in to kiss her temple as they walked away. "Hope you're in the mood for beer and pizza."

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On how exactly you would like this 'proper send-off' to go."

* * *

_She placed her hand behind her head, propping herself up slightly as she watched him across the room. "Maybe we should leave the hotel at some point," she finally said, getting a quizzical look in response._

_"Qatar may be a nation-wide resort, but I'm pretty sure they would frown on this sort of activity on the beach," he replied a minute later._

_Kim Tomblin rolled her eyes as she pulled herself up onto her elbows. "I'm just saying, we're on R&R—"_

_"Not getting enough rest and recuperation, Captain?" Jeff Cunningham joked, surprising her by throwing himself on the bed before kissing her. "And you do realize, I just promoted you to O-6."_

_"Oh, okay, L-T," she joked right back at him, rolling over him to kiss him again. "And I just demoted you to O-1."_

_"Could be O-2," he argued. "Although I'm not sure that makes it any better." He fisted his hands in the dark hair that was falling over him, pulling her down for another kiss, this one long and deep. "What was that about leaving the hotel?" he asked, slightly breathless as they separated. Kim just laughed._

_"I've never seen Qatar," she said, idly tracing designs on his well-toned chest with her finger. "And we can do this anytime."_

_He raised his eyebrows at that. "We both have two roommates," he reminded her._

_"But your roommates are Rodriguez and Gorsuch," she said, her eyes wide with false innocence. "They'd enjoy the show."_

_"I never would have taken you for an exhibitionist, Tomblin." She chuckled, gathering her hair with one hand to pull it to the side. "You do that a lot," Jeff said thoughtfully, "play with your hair," he explained, tugging at a lock as an example. "Well, not a lot, because your hair is usually up, but definitely a lot in the last few days." _

_"Well, I can't exactly play with my clothes," she teased, "seeing as you keep taking them off me."_

_"It's a good look for you," he said, feigning thoughtfulness. "Especially since you don't own any clothes that don't have 'USMC' on them somewhere." _

_"I'm sure it's not on my bikini," she pointed out._

_"That's a risk I'm not willing to take."_

_She chuckled, but the look on her face quickly became thoughtful. "Middle name," she said abruptly. He looked confused, but then groaned as realization hit._

_"We're playing this game again?" he said reluctantly, then sighed at her stubborn expression. "Fine. Try to guess."_

_"Not how the game is played," she scolded. "Okay, it starts with an 'S'. Scott?"_

_"You're not going to get it."_

_"Then why'd you tell me to guess?" He just grinned. "Samuel?" Shake of the head. "Cunningham's an Irish name… Sean?"_

_"Sawyer. It's my mother's maiden name."_

_She smacked him lightly on the chest. "Bastard." He grinned and pulled her down again for another kiss._

_"Same question."_

_"You've seen my medical record!"_

_"I was more concerned with documenting the burn on that amazing thigh than checking your middle name." He leaned over and pressed his lips to the still-tender skin on the outside of her right thigh. "I know it starts with an 'A'." She opened her mouth but was interrupted by the beeping of his cell phone. "Did you set my alarm?"_

_She shrugged a shoulder as he got up to turn it off. "You sleep a lot after sex. I got bored."_

_"You set any others?"_

_"Definitely not your watch." He gave her an exasperated look as he reached for the watch, days ago abandoned on the hotel's dresser._

_"I don't even know how to work the alarm on this damn thing," he muttered, pressing buttons and getting random beeps as he went. Kim just chuckled, earning her a mock-glare. "And you still haven't answered the question."_

_"Aiko."_

_"Aiko?"_

_"It's Japanese," she explained, as if that weren't obvious. "Means 'beloved child' or some such thing." She rolled her eyes and he laughed._

_"Kimberley Aiko, the beloved child," he teased. She moved to kick him, but he grabbed her ankle, using the momentum to both pull her toward him and him over her, pinning her to the bed and kissing her in such a way that she almost forgot where they were and why there were there. "God, Kim," Jeff murmured, resting his forehead against hers. "I get sent to war and meet you. How the hell did that happen?"_

* * *

"Hey, Kim." Tomblin sighed as she rose from where she was lying on the floor of the holding cell, where she ended up after doing the same set of push-ups and sit-ups she had done every morning when she was in the Corps.

"McGee," she greeted with a sigh. "Is this Gibbs' new interrogation technique? Rotating interrogators and no lawyer?"

"Do you want a lawyer?"

"No," she said, sighing again. "I want my phone, but I'm guessing that's not going to happen."

"Gibbs submitted it to the lab."

"Of course he did," she muttered. She released her ponytail before gathering it up again. "Okay," she said. "What do you want?"

"Gibbs told me to get everything on you."

She raised her eyebrows. "And asking me isn't cheating?"

"Figured you know you better than anyone else does."

"Guess that's a good point. What do you want to know?"

"Gibbs said everything. Including third grade report card."

"Third grade…" she mused thoughtfully. "Okinawa? No, that's not right. Lejeune? Maybe Quantico. Or maybe home in Pateros." She shrugged. "I think my mom kept my old report cards. I can get you her number, you can call and ask."

"I don't think he really needs your third grade report card." He was glad to see a slight smile flit across her lips.

"Okay," she said a moment later. "The brief history of Kim Tomblin. Home of record is Pateros, Washington, but definitely a Corps brat. Parents are retired Master Sergeant Christopher Tomblin and Sally Tojo Tomblin. Dad now works the family orchard in Pateros, Mom teaches kindergarten. Three older brothers: Majors Kanten and Karsten Tomblin, identical twins and helicopter pilots, stationed in Okinawa; and former Sergeant Kevan Tomblin, mechanic. In addition to working on the orchard, Kev currently works as a—now this is going to come as a surprise—_mechanic_, at the John Deere dealership in Twisp, Washington."

"I think we can skip to anything relevant."

"Oh, but then you'll miss the good stuff," Tomblin said with wide-eyed innocence. "Pay attention, this might get confusing. Both grandfathers—also Corps and veterans of the second world war—own and somewhat operate an apple orchard in Pateros—"

"Wait," McGee interrupted with a frown. "Isn't one of your grandfathers Japanese?"

"Your point, McGee?"

"Well, I didn't think, uh, I didn't know there were any Japanese-Americans in the Marine Corps during World War II."

"Intelligence," she explained. "Not only was he in the Corps, but the Corps taught him Japanese."

"He didn't already know it?"

"He's third generation Japanese, McGee. Do you speak… whatever language it is that your ancestors spoke?"

"Good point."

"Okay, if you're not interested in family history… relevant." She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her words came out quickly. "Graduated high school at seventeen, went to Eastern Washington University on all sorts of scholarships, including Naval ROTC, went to Marine Corps OCS at Quantico in the summer between my junior and senior year, graduated with a B.S. in forensic science and was commissioned as a butter bar. Went on to Military Police Officers Basic Course and then sent to Camp Pendleton. Deployed to Iraq as the CO of Second Platoon, Security Company, Combat Logistics Battalion 5, Combat Logistics Regiment 1, 1st Marine Logistics Group. Got Purple Hearted and Bronze Starred and promoted before making it back stateside. Stayed on with the battalion, was sent to FLETC just for fun, deployed again as the Security Company Commander, had all sorts of fun for fourteen months and made it home relatively unscathed, except for the burn on my thigh thanks to the stupidity of a couple of my Marines." She shrugged a shoulder. "Spent my post-deployment leave in Pennsylvania and on the family orchard in Washington, went directly to terminal leave, got my stuff out of storage from Pendleton, and headed up to Silverdale, Washington—outside Seattle—for my NCIS probieship. Somewhere in there I finished my master's degree. Then it was the _Roosevelt_, then my brief stint with you guys, and then here." She shrugged. "And then I was arrested for murdering my boss."

"What was in Pennsylvania?"

"There's a lot in Pennsylvania," she replied. "The first capital of the United States, the Liberty Bell, some Amish people."

"And which of those did you go to see?"

"I did see some Amish people. They have orange triangles on the back of the horse-drawn buggies."

"Kim."

"There was a guy," she admitted. "The senior medical officer during my deployment. We did the whole 'I'll show you my parents if you show me yours' thing."

"Serious?"

She shrugged. "Serious enough for him to meet my entire crazy Corps family, which is no small thing for a squid doctor."

"Squid doctor?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "_How_ long have you been with NCIS? Squids are Navy; jarheads, devil dogs, and leathernecks are Marines; zoomies are Air Force; doggies are Army. Try to keep up." She sighed and looked away. "Yeah, it was serious, but he stayed at Pendleton and I went to Silverdale, and that was that."

"Whose choice was that?"

"Choice?" She looked surprised at the concept and shook her head slightly. "We both had our career goals, and unfortunately, they weren't compatible. Terrorists are in the Middle East and pediatric infectious disease fellowships are in San Diego and DC—in his case, San Diego."

He knew it probably wasn't relevant to the case, or anything else for that matter, but he couldn't help but ask, "Do you regret it?"

"Yeah, McGee," she said softly. "Every day for the last year and a half, since we relived a week in Qatar and began I to wonder what it would be like to not go back to work."


	26. Chapter 26

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 26**

**

* * *

**

They had been lying in bed silently for about twenty minutes; Ziva had been pretty sure that Tony had fallen asleep until he started tracing random patterns on her back. Knowing he was awake, she was tempted to roll over and go for an encore—there was something about needy, I-don't-know-if-I'll-see-you-alive-again sex that was truly amazing and a little bit different than any other tumble in the sheets—but she could tell that there was something on his mind. So instead, she rolled over and pressed her lips to his jaw and waited for him to start talking.

She didn't have to wait long. "The first time we met, Burley and I didn't get along at all," he said, his voice heavy with the memory. "For the next month, Kate teased me about it, calling me the jealous little brother. I have no idea how a little brother is supposed to act, but I guess that was about right." He paused, his eyes up on the ceiling but not really looking at anything. "I had been Gibbs' senior field agent for… two years, at that point," he continued, "and Burley had worked with Gibbs for five before that. Gibbs actually seemed… happy, to be seeing Burley again, and yeah, I guess I was jealous of that. When we were boarding the plane and Gibbs shook Burley's hand, I realized that Gibbs had never shaken _my_ hand." He gave a cynical chuckle. "The things that stick out, I guess."

"Gibbs does respect you," Ziva reminded him.

"Oh, I know," Tony said quickly. "And I've gotten a couple of handshakes since then, but at that point… But I guess Burley was a good 'big brother', because when all was said and done, told me how long it took Gibbs to warm to him, said it was years before Gibbs even knew his name."

"Burley was a good guy."

"Yeah." He sighed again, and Ziva began to regret the line of thought; not the way she wanted that 'proper send-off' to go. "Why would Kim do it?"

"Why does anybody kill another person?"

"Greed, anger, jealousy, lust, hatred…"

"The need to keep something secret."

Tony frowned at that. "You think Burley found out something he wasn't supposed to?"

She shrugged. "Does Tomblin have any bones in her closet?"

He chuckled. "Skeletons, Ziva. People keep skeletons in the closet. And sexual orientations, but I doubt that's Tomblin's issue."

"Are you sure about that?" she asked teasingly.

"You're exciting eighteen-year-old Marines around the world with that thought," he warned her. He sighed, again turning his attention to the ceiling. "What could be so damaging that she'd take the very real possibility of a life sentence in Leavenworth to protect?"

"For a Marine, honor is everything," Ziva mused aloud. "She is highly decorated—"

"So's the rest of her family," Tony interrupted. At Ziva's puzzled expression, he shrugged. "Things were slow when I was working cold cases," he explained, referring to the time when he was recovering from a gunshot wound and Tomblin was temporarily on the team. "I looked her up. Three brothers in the Corps, father's a Vietnam vet with a Purple Heart and Meritorious Service Medal. Both grandfathers were also Marines, both in World War II, one with a Purple Heart from Iwo Jima and the other with a Distinguished Service Cross—he was a Japanese-American Marine in military intelligence in the Pacific Theater. That's a pretty elite group to be in."

"Perhaps Burley had found something from her service that was questionable and confronted her about it."

"Yeah, maybe," he said, but she could tell he was unconvinced. "I'll look into it."

For a few minutes, they were both silent, trying to figure out what secrets Tomblin could possibly have that were worth killing for. Thinking of the damaging nature of keeping secrets, or even the perception of keeping secrets, Ziva remembered something that came up earlier in the case. "Tony," she said. "Those emails… They were just on cases that Mossad and NCIS were both involved in."

"I know," he replied, a little surprised that she thought he assumed otherwise. He gave her a teasing grin. "What else could they be? Not even you're talented enough to have an affair with a man eight time zones away."

"This coming from the man who tried to convince me that he was making a 'habit' of sleeping with armed assassins?"

"Well, Shava is pretty cute." She gave him a mock glare and patted his cheek playfully.

"Be careful, Tony," she teased. "If you keep up with these jokes, I will start to think that you are serious."

He gave her a wolfish grin and rolled over her. "Well, then I'll have to find a way to convince you otherwise."

---

Tony drove Ziva back to the office, both silent in the slower-than-necessary trip across base. "Tony," Ziva protested as he turned off the engine and removed the keys, "you do not have to walk me in."

"I know," he replied. "Doesn't mean I don't want to." This time, the grin didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm going to see about getting some work done."

"Tony." With her hand on his cheek, she turned his head to face him. "You cannot stay awake the entire time I am gone."

"Wasn't planning on it," he replied. "I just sleep better when you're there."

She smiled slightly before leaning across the center of the car to kiss him. When they separated, it was another small, and what she hoped was reassuring, smile, and then she turned, exited the car, and headed into the building. Tony waited until the door closed behind her before he followed.

---

From his room in the Gateway, Gibbs pulled out his cell phone as he studied the slip of the paper in his hand. After having no luck with Dr. Cunningham's cell phone, he looked up the number of the pediatric infectious disease clinic at Bob Wilson Naval Hospital, figuring that it would be much harder for the lieutenant commander to avoid him that way.

_"Pediatric infectious disease, this is HM3 Duckworth, how may I help you, sir or ma'am?"_

"Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS," he replied to the young-sounding corpsman. "Need to speak to Lt. Commander Jeffrey Cunningham."

_"Oh,"_ HM3 Duckworth replied, sounding slightly awkward. _"Sorry, sir, but Dr. Cunningham is on leave right now."_

"Do you have his leave address?"

_"Uh, not on hand, sir, but I can ask the department chair for it and fax it to you, if you would like. I think he mentioned Pennsylvania, though. That's where he's from."_

"When's he getting back?"

_"Uh, he's scheduled to see patients on Monday, the 26__th__."_

On leave and with his cell phone turned off; something about this was gnawing at his gut. "Get me the address and phone number," he ordered, reciting the fax number for the Bahrain office before hanging up.

He sat on the couch for a long minute, staring at the cell phone without really seeing it, while his mind processed the conversation, and only one conclusion came to mind.

Whatever was going on, Dr. Jeff Cunningham was involved.

---

DiNozzo was already in the office, in his new chair at his new desk, when McGee arrived in the morning. "You're here early," he commented, glancing down at his watch. It wasn't quite as early as the last couple of days, but it wasn't like Gibbs was letting him sleep in.

Tony glanced up at the junior agent and shrugged before returning his attention to the computer screen in front of him. "Early, late, it's all a matter of perspective. Kinda like the 'half-empty, half-full' debate."

"So… you're _still_ here?"

"Um-hmm."

"Why?"

"Don't know if you noticed or not, Probie, but we're working a murder case? Of an NCIS agent? And we're another agent short? And I just inherited an entire field office and all of its subordinate offices?"

"Ziva left for a mission, didn't she?"

"Ding, ding, ding!" DiNozzo said sarcastically, his words picking up volume and tempo and he spoke. "Correct answer! Johnny, tell little McGiggle what he won!"

"Calm down, DiNozzo, or I'm putting you in time-out." Both agents turned as Gibbs entered the office with coffee in hand. "McGee."

"Uh…"

"Report, McGee."

"Oh. Sorry, Boss. Tomblin was born at Tripler Army Medical Center when her father was stationed at Marine Corps Base Hawaii—"

"I'm more interested in things that aren't in her officer jacket, McGee."

"Right. She was pretty much the definition of a squared away Marine when she was in the Corps," McGee began. "During her first deployment, she was awarded—"

"Medals aren't awarded, McGee. They're earned," Gibbs interrupted.

"Then, she earned a Bronze Star with the Valor Device and a Purple Heart when she was shot after her Humvee was ambushed. They were hit by an IED—"

"That was in the days before most vehicles were up-armored," DiNozzo commented, leaning back in his chair. "They're lucky they weren't all killed."

"Three of them weren't so lucky," McGee pointed out. "Including their Navy corpsman. According to witness accounts and the citation for the Bronze Star, she ordered the remaining Marines to provide suppressive fire while she and two others went back to collect their wounded. They got the three others to safety, one of whom later died at the battalion aid station. While she was helping drag one of the Marines—the radio operator, who had one of his legs blown off—out of the line of fire, she took a bullet to the arm, but still managed to get him in a protected position and get his rapid tourniquet on his leg. Then, she had one of the Marines provide pressure to her arm while she used the radio to call in a nine-line for a casualty evacuation."

"Wow," DiNozzo said. "That's pretty damn impressive. Especially for someone as small as she is. How is that only a Bronze Star?"

"She enlisted, would have been a Silver," Gibbs commented.

"Boss?" McGee asked

"We expect more from officers. Don't usually get it, but still expect it."

"Ah. Anyway, the radio operator, Sergeant Benjamin Cole, was evacuated to Germany and then Bethesda, spent some time in the rehab unit at Walter Reed prior to getting a medical discharge from the Marine Corps," McGee continued. "Tomblin was taken to the battalion aid station and then an Army Combat Support Hospital. She was hospitalized for a total of a week and then returned to base for light duty for another two months. By the time the deployment was over, she was back on patrol. Her Marines called her 'Lt. Bulletproof' after that."

"What happened after that?" DiNozzo asked, genuinely curious.

"Well, she was given—uh, earned—a below-the-zone promotion to first lieutenant before the deployment was over, but kept the same position as platoon leader. After she returned to Camp Pendleton, she expressed an interest in going through FLETC, for some advanced training, and her commanding officers approved it. By the time the regiment was deployed again, she was a captain and the CO of the security company."

"Sounds like she was on the fast-track," DiNozzo commented. "Probably would have seen stars if she stayed in long enough. Why'd she come over to NCIS?"

"Wrote in her application that she was more interested in being a cop than teaching other people how to be cops, which was one of her jobs during her second deployment—training the Iraqi police forces. Her CO's were sad to see her go, though. They gave her really good letters of recommendation, but in all of them, stated that they wished she were staying in the Corps."

"When'd she apply?" Gibbs asked, the look on his face enough to tell both DiNozzo and McGee that he was working something out in his head.

"Uh, while she was still in Iraq," McGee answered.

"How long before the deployment was over?"

"Uh…" McGee checked his notes. "She got back to the States in February. She had the offer from NCIS in early January, so she must have been filling out the application in October, maybe November at the latest."

"Fourteen month deployment," Gibbs said, still talking more to himself than the other two agents. "Decided to make the switch ten or eleven months in, would have been after R&R."

"Boss?"

Ignoring McGee's question, he began barking orders, "When we get back—DiNozzo, everything this Sergeant Cole has done since leaving the Corps. McGee, look into Lt. Commander Jeffrey Cunningham, go through Tomblin's email and get me every message that's been sent back and forth between them."

"When we get back, Boss?" McGee asked, beginning to follow as Gibbs headed out of the office. "Where are we going?"

"Tomblin's apartment, then the crime scene." He offered no further explanation, and both DiNozzo and McGee knew better than to ask for one.


	27. Chapter 27

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 27**

**

* * *

**

Ziva David met David Cohen's eyes from across the cabin of the cargo ship and nodded slightly. Earning a nod in reply, he closed the magazine—no, comic book—he was reading and rose from his bunk. "I am going to get some fresh air," he said, speaking Arabic on the off-chance that somebody had bugged their cabin.

Ziva waited a full two minutes before she also rose, not saying anything to the remaining operatives as she left the too-small room. She found Cohen leaning against the railing about three-quarters of the way to the rear of the ship. "I have always enjoyed being at sea at night," he said thoughtfully as she approached, his eyes fixed on the barely-discernable horizon. "My father is a fisherman, thought I should have joined the navy, but the idea of life aboard a boat did not interest me."

"Not enough excitement?" she asked dryly, taking position next to him at the railing, also looking out onto the water, her ponytailed hair whipping in the wind. "Although I believe they like to call them 'ships'." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cohen's lips twitch into a smile.

"You have concerns about the mission," he finally stated, still not meeting her eye.

"You do not agree?" she asked, studying him fully. He turned and faced her, and the tension around his eyes and uncertainty in them were enough to tell her that he did.

"Maybe you should tell me your concerns first. We can see if they are the same as mine."

She smiled slightly at the wry humor in his voice. "I do not know the team," she finally admitted. "And they are young. For that matter, so are you."

"You were young once."

"I like to think that I am not yet ready for the retirement home," she shot back, earning a chuckle in response. "But yes, I was young and inexperienced, and I made mistakes because I made risks that I should not have been making."

Cohen chuckled slightly as he turned back out to face the water. "You are concerned about Shava."

"Yes," she said flatly.

"I assure you, Ziva, you do not have to worry about her stealing your Agent DiNozzo from you," he said wryly. "Shava likes to flirt and is very good at it, but there is no sincerity behind it. Besides," he said, turning to face her, "I do not think even a pretty face and French accent would distract Agent DiNozzo."

"I am not worried about any attempts she would make at Tony," Ziva said dismissively. "I trust him, for good reason."

"Because he knows that you will kill him if he is not faithful?" Despite herself, Ziva felt her lips curl into a smile at the words.

"Something like that," she answered dryly. "But in all seriousness, there are many questions that her file does not answer. We should start with, why is she on this team? She is not even a field operative!"

Cohen turned back out to face the water and just stared silently at it for several long minutes. "She requested the transfer," he finally said. "The reason she gave is that she wanted the experience, and all of her physical and psychological testing suggested that she would be a good fit for field operations."

"You do not believe that that is the real reason." Statement, not a question.

"No," he replied. "There are rumors among people who would know that she had an affair with a high-ranking Mossad officer, perhaps even a member of the directorate, and when the relationship ended, used that leverage to get assigned away from Tel Aviv. In some of these stories, she became pregnant with his child and aborted the fetus."

Ziva snorted. "If she was careless enough to get pregnant unintentionally, then she should not be a field operative," she said derisively. She watched Cohen's reactions out of the corner of her eye. "Unless you are saying it was not unintentional."

"I do not even know if there was a pregnancy," he pointed out. "I have not seen any reason to distrust Shava since she arrived in Bahrain."

"When was that?"

"Six months ago," he replied. "When I returned from our mission in Afghanistan, she was there."

"Abrupt," she said. "We were not in Afghanistan long."

"No," he agreed. "It was a surprise to me, but when you are given orders…" His voice trailed off as he shrugged.

"So you did not request to have another operative in Bahrain?"

"No," he replied. "Just the opposite. We had another operative before Shava joined us, but we were not often busy. I recommended to Tel Aviv that resources should be spared, that they should reduce the Bahrain team to one operative and one analyst."

"And instead you lose your fellow operative and get Shava instead."

He shrugged a shoulder. "Orders," he said simply.

"And that does not strike you as odd?" she pressed. "That they would remove a standing operative and replace with a new one, when you do not often have a need for it?"

"Are you always this paranoid?" Cohen asked, amused.

"I am still alive," she snapped. He just chuckled, earning him another glare. "How well do you know Shava?" she continued. He studied her out of the corner of his eye for several beats.

"Unlike some, I do not mix work with pleasure," he finally said, and she frowned as she tried to decide if he was more amused or disapproving in his words. He turned to her. "I know her personnel file and what I have heard further from other sources throughout Mossad. And I know that she is a good shot and does not have problems maintaining a cover."

"What did you learn from your other sources?" she pressed.

"That she goes by 'Shava' because her uncle called her 'Elle'," he said. "That she was taking university courses when she was twelve. That, although Avrum handles the technology and intelligence analysis, that she could do just as good of a job. And from what I have seen with my own eyes, that she is a capable field operative, despite her unconventional way of arriving at the position." He studied Ziva for a minute. "You still do not trust her."

"Agent Gibbs would call it his gut," she said. "I do not know how else to describe it."

"Not all of us have the benefit of being vetted by Mossad from birth," he pointed out. She glared briefly, not needing the reminder of her father or the thinly-veiled hints of nepotism.

"How long have you been in Bahrain?" she asked instead.

"Almost two years," he replied, clearly not bothered by the abrupt change of subject.

"As long as Agent Tomblin."

"Yes," he said with a nod. "But I did not mix work and pleasure with her, either."

She smiled thinly. "In your opinion, could she have killed Agent Burley?"

"Could she?" he asked. "Yes, quite definitely. I have great respect for American Marines, and from what I have read of her file, as well as from what I have seen directly in the few cases we have worked together, she was an exceptional Marine. Would she?" He shrugged. "That, I would have a harder time believing. She does not strike me as an impulsive person, which would mean that she had planned on killing him, and I cannot see her doing something so… malicious."

"I do not understand."

He smiled slightly. "I have no doubt that you could easily kill just about anybody," he said as an example. "Yet I am not nervous, standing here next to you, because while I believe that you _could_ kill me, I doubt that you _would_."

Ziva sighed and turned back out to look over the dark water. "You said you have concerns," she finally said, changing the subject again. "What are they?"

It was Cohen's turn to sigh as he also turned back to the sea. "I do not understand what is going on," he admitted. At Ziva's upraised eyebrows, he shook his head. "I understand what _we_ are to be doing," he explained. "I do not know what _they_ are doing."

"At the camp."

He nodded. "They're moving vehicles into the camp to drive them out," he said. "Why would they do that? The change in the traffic pattern suggests that they are up to something, but what?"

She thought about that for a moment. "Where are the vehicles going?"

"Likely into Sa'dah, the nearest city of any consequence."

"Typically when we think of terrorists being up to something, we think dirty bombs," she stated. "Any source of radiation that they could be moving into the camp, perhaps using the vehicles as a cover?"

He snorted. "From northern Yemen?"

"Good point." She frowned. "Biological warfare."

"Anthrax," he stated. "It is found in nature in the Middle East, does not take a great deal of expertise to process."

"That does not explain what Lieutenant Hoskins is doing with them. He is a police officer, not a microbiologist."

"If they were planning on attacking an American military compound, or America itself, it does," he pointed out. They stared at each other for a long minute.

"Are you thinking what I am thinking?" Ziva finally asked.

"Only if you were thinking that we should have brought gas masks and been taking antibiotics."


	28. Chapter 28

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 28**

* * *

Kim Tomblin's apartment was pretty much exactly as expected: small, clean, tastefully decorated in straight lines, no excess clutter and nothing out of place. The furniture was all middle-of-the-line—nothing that looked like it belonged in a college student's apartment and nothing expensive, with the only exception being the rich burgundy and dark green Persian rug under the coffee table. "Do you think this is a real Persian rug?"

"Why, McProbie? Look like something you saw in _Better Homes and Gardens_?" DiNozzo asked, lifting the camera to snap a few pictures of it. "Probably," he said, answering McGee's question. "She spent about two years in Iraq. Plenty of opportunities to buy a Persian rug. Probably got a good deal on it, too."

"Really?" McGee asked, seeming genuinely interested. "Because back home, a rug like this would cost somewhere between ten and twenty thousand dollars—"

"Twenty thousand for a piece of carpet?" DiNozzo interrupted. He thought about that for a second before he shrugged. "Guess that's not too unbelievable. If you had seen some of the things my father bought—"

"We know," McGee interrupted. "Your dad's got money. We get it. Can we get this over with? I feel a little funny being here."

"First time in a woman's apartment?" DiNozzo joked absently as he studied the wall of photographs, all with the same simple chestnut frames. There was no particular pattern to the images—color, black and white, and sepia; with people and without; landscape and portrait—in no particular chronological order. "She was a cute kid," he commented, seeing a family photo in an apple orchard when she was five or six—an older couple with their arms around each other, an Asian man who looked about the same age, next to a woman who looked like his daughter, a powerfully-built blond man in his thirties, a pair of identical skinny boys who looked twelve or thirteen, a chunkier boy a few years younger, and sitting up in a tree, a grinning little Kim Tomblin with long black hair in two braids.

One big, happy, multi-generational, multi-cultural family.

He took a picture of it before continuing down the wall, studying each image in efforts of figuring out the woman who hung them there. Two Marine captains in flight suits leaning against a helicopter with identical grins, the Eiffel tower, a half-Asian boy in a high school football uniform, a military camp surrounded in barbed wire, Kim Tomblin in a college soccer jersey dribbling a ball down the field, an apple orchard in bloom, the two older men from the family portrait in overalls, the _U.S.S. Roosevelt_ coming into port, five Marines in dress blues—the blond master sergeant surrounded by his four children—Tomblin in full MARPAT uniform and gear standing in the desert next to a taller man who was using her shoulder as an arm rest, both of them grinning.

And right in the middle of the wall, the one frame that wasn't only a photograph: a Purple Heart in the middle, on the left a picture of Tomblin at two or three sitting on her grandfather's lap with his black USMC Purple Heart baseball cap on her head, his arm ending in a stump holding her in place. On the right, she was standing in uniform between her father and grandfather, all three wearing that same cap. "Gotta love family traditions," he muttered as he took a picture

"What was that, Tony?" McGee asked.

"Hmm?"

"Did you say something?"

"Oh." He looked back at the picture. "Lotta injuries in the Tomblin family."

"Not exactly a desk job, DiNozzo," Gibbs commented from the bookshelves on the other side of the room. In addition to the books—textbooks, novels, history books, standard USMC reading, books in Arabic—she had a display stand of military challenge coins, which included a fair number of admirals and generals, including the commandant of the Marine Corps, as well as her battalion commanders during her deployments and a few from training courses. Gibbs absently picked up the coin from the MP Officer Basic Course and turned it over, seeing the name '2ndLt Kimberley Tomblin' on the back. "McGee," he said, pointing at the small desk next to the bookshelves, "laptop."

"Right, Boss," the junior agent said quickly, hurrying over to the computer. "Looks like it's password protected," he said a minute later. "I'll have to take it back to the lab."

"Do it," Gibbs ordered, even as McGee was already unplugging it from the wall. "DiNozzo, grab the ALS and kill the lights."

They pulled all the blinds closed before donning the orange glasses and getting to work. There was nothing on the couch or anywhere on the floor, including the Persian rug. "Something on the kitchen counter," McGee said a few minutes later. "Probably some sort of food spill," he remarked, even as he took a swab to it to be run in the lab.

"Moving on," Gibbs said. The bathroom also had a few stains, likely spilt cleaning supplies, before they continued.

"My favorite," DiNozzo commented wryly. "The bedroom. You can tell a lot about a person by what the ALS reveals in the bedroom."

"Don't even want to think about what your bedroom would look like," McGee replied. DiNozzo grinned.

"You're just jealous." McGee didn't bother dignifying that with a response, but he had to admit, to himself, that he was a little bit jealous. Not necessarily jealous of Tony, but jealous of the fact that he had managed to maintain a real—if a bit strange—relationship for over two years.

They were all mildly surprised to find absolutely nothing in the bedroom. "Huh," DiNozzo commented. "Kinda expected more from Tomblin."

"Just because she doesn't have sex here doesn't mean she doesn't have sex," Gibbs pointed out.

"Women prefer their own beds," Tony replied.

"Speaking from personal experience, Tony?"

"Actually, Probie, it was Kate who said that." He removed the glasses before turning on the lights, still staring at the previously-made bed. Maybe he was wrong in his initial impression; it was beginning to look like the one without a personal life was Tomblin, not Burley.

"Pack it up," Gibbs ordered, bringing DiNozzo back from his reverie. "Got another apartment to see."

* * *

Unlike the previous apartment, Burley's place lit up like a Christmas tree when they turned on the ALS. "Well, at least someone in Bahrain is getting some action," DiNozzo commented. "The kitchen counter? Really? Because—"

"Don't want to hear it, DiNozzo," Gibbs interrupted.

"Right. Sorry, Boss. Probie, samples."

"Why am I always the one collecting samples?" McGee grumbled as he wiped a swab over the stain on the counter. "Okay, got it."

"Not so fast, McSpeedy-Gonzales. There are other samples to collect."

"Is that really necessary?"

"Can you determine with the ALS that all the female contributions came from one female?" McGee rolled his eyes, but did reach for more swabs from the kit; it actually was a pretty good point.

When they finished with the ALS, they turned on the lights, combing the apartment for anything the MPs who processed the scene could have missed. When they saw the laptop still sitting on Burley's coffee table, they realized that there was quite a lot that could have been missed.

"Seriously," DiNozzo grumbled as he bagged an almost-empty bottle of water, "did _anybody_ teach these guys forensics?"

"Blame Dunham," Gibbs commented from the other side of the room. "He was supervising."

"Can't I blame Tomblin for possibly killing her boss and therefore making it impossible for the one person in this entire country who understands forensics to process the scene?" he grumbled. "Not a bad DVD collection," he said approvingly. "I mean, not a huge number, but it's about quality, not quantity, right?"

"Think his DVDs are going to tell us who killed him?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't know," DiNozzo said thoughtfully as he removed a DVD from the shelf. "_Sleepless in Seattle_? Really, Burley? Somebody might have killed him to take him out of his misery."

"What's wrong with _Sleepless in Seattle_?"

"Where do you want me to start, Probie?" He replaced the DVD and headed over to the large living room window, pulling open the blinds, returning them to where they had been before they had to darken the room to use the ALS. "Not a bad view," he said approvingly. "Wonder if they have any two-bedrooms with this view available."

"Two bedrooms?" McGee asked, eyebrows raised.

"Don't get all excited and start organizing baby showers, McGirlie," DiNozzo said dryly. "Need an office. Or a den. You know, a man cave." McGee snorted at that. "You ever try living in a one-bedroom apartment with another person?" he continued absently, frowning as he studied the building across the way. "McGee," he said slowly, his eyes not moving from that building. "Have you ever seen _Rear Window_?"


	29. Chapter 29

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 29**

_A/N: I've had a few comments about how long it took Gibbs and Co. to get to Burley's apartment and for Tony to make the "_Rear Window_" reference. Although a lot of time in RL has passed since the first chapter, it hasn't been that long in the story; they arrived in Bahrain around midnight on Monday night (local time), Tuesday was spent getting caught up on the case and the old cases and fighting jetlag (not the episode; this has nothing to do with Paris), Tomblin was arrested on Wednesday. It's only Thursday morning. Yes, they could have gone to Burley's apartment on Tuesday morning, but with the body gone and the crime scene cleared out, there was no reason for anyone to anticipate finding anything._

_

* * *

_

If David Cohen had his way, missions would consist of a month of planning—preferably by someone else—followed by an hour of action. He knew that Ziva David, with her _metsada_ background, likely felt the same way. Shava Cremieux, trained in psychological operations and deception, measured missions in months, sometimes even years. And Avrum Dardik, as long as he got a couple of hours a day to play _World of Warcraft_ or whatever the current game was, was happy no matter how long the mission was taking.

Spending a day and a half traveling for a mission with poor intelligence meant he had entirely too much time to do nothing but worry and come up with 'worst case scenarios', each worse than the last.

"Your nervous anticipation is making me nervous." He took a deep breath as he reluctantly rolled onto his side and into a seated position on the floor where he had been doing his pushups, to see Shava watching him with eyebrows raised.

"I do not like waiting," he admitted as he rose to his feet, using the tee-shirt he discarded to wipe the sweat from his forehead. "Where is Ziva?"

Shava shrugged a shoulder, her eyes returning to the book resting in front of where she was reclining on her bunk. "Likely running up and down the stairs in the lower compartments," she answered. She looked back up at Cohen. "What exactly is the story Agent Dunham gave the crew of this ship? A group of Jews who exercise fanatically typically gets some attention."

"He paid them enough money that they do not care to make theories," he replied. She raised her eyebrows briefly to that before her attention returned to her book. Cohen watched her for a moment as he grabbed a clean shirt and tossed it on. Remembering his conversation with Ziva the evening before, he decided it was time for a talk with the young operative.

"How do you like Bahrain?" he asked conversationally. Shava glanced up again before slowly placing a bookmark and closing the book.

"It is different than my previous work," she finally said. "But not necessarily in a bad way."

He nodded slightly. "And outside of work?"

Shava's eyebrows rose, her dark eyes slightly wary and slightly amused. "I do not mix work and pleasure," she said as a response, and Cohen chuckled and shook his head at the way she misinterpreted the question, before becoming serious.

"That is not what I have heard."

Instantly, the look on Shava's face became challenging. "So we are going to do this now?"

He spread his arms to indicate the empty room. "We have the time. I am not going anywhere else."

She reluctantly drew herself to a seated position on the bunk. "I would ask you what you have heard, but I have heard all of the rumors, so there is no need. Yes, I was having an affair with a high-ranking Mossad officer. No, I am not going to tell you who. No, I was not pregnant." She rolled her eyes slightly. "I am not nearly careless enough for that."

"And then?"

"And then I ended it and asked him to use his position to get me out of Tel Aviv. He did."

"Just like that."

She shrugged a shoulder. "I might have hinted that his wife would find out if he did not."

Cohen couldn't help but smile at the innocent way she said that. "Devious."

"Devious was my job." She sighed and fluffed out her hair slightly. "Why is this suddenly important? We have been working together for six months."

"We have not had any major operations in that time. Now we do. We are going to be in a confined area with a lot of weapons involved. I like to know as much as possible about as many people behind those weapons as possible."

"You have not questioned Officer David."

"Ziva and I have worked together before," he informed her. He didn't bother to explain that it was one very quick mission and they exchanged maybe ten words in that time. "Besides, it is impossible for Officer David to have any secrets, for her entire life."

"Because her father was the director." Cohen nodded. "But she has been in America for six years now."

"And you think Mossad has not been keeping tabs on her in that time? I am sure you could find somebody in Mossad who could tell you how many nights she has slept at Agent DiNozzo's apartment in the last month. I would not recommend you bring that up to her, though."

"I think maybe it is easier to keep secrets than you may think." She gave him another tight smile before purposefully opening her book again, telling Cohen without a question that the conversation was over.

---

While DiNozzo and McGee were checking out the building with a view of Burley's place, Gibbs headed back to the office to do some police work.

LCDR Cunningham's leave paperwork came in via fax during the night, listing his leave address as the home of Pamela Grazier in Coatesville, Pennsylvania; a quick check of Cunningham's officer jacket listed Pamela Grazier as his mother. A phone number was listed, but while Gibbs usually couldn't care less if he woke somebody, he figured there were things he could be doing other than waking middle-aged women from sleep.

It didn't take him long to track down what Sergeant Ben Cole had been up to since he lost his leg the day Tomblin was shot. After a brief stay at Bethesda and longer stay in the rehab unit at Walter Reed, he went back home to Wise County, Virginia, and applied for a position as a sheriff's deputy. After a few rejections, they decided that perseverance should mean something and gave him a shot.

With one leg, he graduated at the top of his class from the police academy.

His cell phone number was listed in his veteran's file, and after three rings, Gibbs was rewarded with a groggy, _"Hello?"_

"Sergeant Benjamin Cole?"

His question was met with a brief period of silence. _"Haven't heard that in a while. Yeah. Who's this?"_

"Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS."

_"Yeah, okay. Do you mind holding for a few minutes?"_ Before Gibbs could answer, he heard the flat nothingness of a phone on mute. A good five minutes had passed before Cole came back, sounding much more awake. _"Sorry. I didn't want to wake my wife, and it takes a few minutes to get my prosthesis on. What can I do for NCIS?"_

"Need to talk to you about Kim Tomblin."

The statement was met with another period of silence. _"Wow. Okay. Not expecting that, but okay. What do you need to know?"_

"Tell me about the day she earned her Bronze Star."

_"You mean the day she saved my life?"_ he asked in response, sounding slightly amused. _"To be honest, I don't remember much of that day, most of what I know is what my buddies told me afterwards."_

"Just tell me what you know."

_"Okay. We were in the Humvee, heading back to camp after a mission. I honestly couldn't tell you what we did, things from Iraq have blended together a bit since then. I remember little snippets of things. Corporal Owens was driving, I was behind him, and Kim was in the front passenger seat. I remember her laughing about something, probably one of Owens' fucking jokes. Sorry about the profanity, sir."_

"Doesn't offend me," Gibbs replied.

_"That's good, I guess. Uh, the next thing I remember is waking up in the field hospital, but my buddies told me what happened. An IED was detonated as we were driving by, blew us up pretty good. Owens, Petersen, and Doc—HM2 Mallory—were killed on impact, Gaddis died at the hospital."_ He lapsed into silence for a second before speaking again. _"The L-T and a couple others made it away from the vehicle before she realized that I had the radio. She came back for it and me, I guess, her and Stetson dragged me out of the Humvee and into the ditch where the others were set up. That's when she got shot, but she didn't stop. The guys said she was pretty unbelievable—she got shot and all she did was cuss and switch which hand she was using to help drag me. And then she radioed it in and they got us out of there, killing the haji bastards—sorry—who were shooting at us. Someone even managed to salvage our gear after the bullets stopped flying, although the Humvee was toast."_

"Pretty impressive."

_ "Yeah, no shit. I didn't believe it at first, because she's so small—I mean, it always surprised me that she was even able to get her gear on, and I'm not exactly a lightweight—but the guys all swore that that's what happened and there's no reason that they'd lie about that. Adrenaline or something, I guess."_

"You see her after that day?"

_"Once, sir. I flew out to Pendleton when the unit came back, so I could be standing there waiting for them when they deplaned. She asked what I was up to, told her I was scheduled to start the police academy a couple of months later, that I wasn't go to let a little amputated leg stop me. She said 'oorah', and I saluted, and that was the last time I saw her."_

It was pretty much exactly as McGee had explained it, which was no surprise—after all, Cole himself admitted that everything he knew was from the other guys in the squad—but that didn't mean Gibbs didn't learn anything from the conversation. "One last thing, Sergeant—"

_"It's 'deputy' now, sir."_

"Deputy. You referred to Tomblin as 'Kim'. I was in the Corps for a lot of years, and I never called an officer by a first name." There was silence on the other end, waiting for the other shoe to fall. "Were you sleeping with your lieutenant?"


	30. Chapter 30

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 30**

_A/N: I'm in Peru (bet you didn't see that one coming)! It's nice and warm, but that's beside the point. I'm going to try to maintain the daily updates, but between trying not to fry my electronics and sometimes sketchy internet access, don't be surprised if I disappear for a couple of days before the story's done._

_

* * *

_

_"Is there a reason why I'm naked but still wearing my dogtags?" Kim asked lazily as she played with one of the thin tags. "I mean, the naked I understand, but the dogtags?"_

_ Jeff chuckled. "I was a little bit too concerned with getting to the naked to deal with the dogtags," he admitted before giving a wide grin. "Besides, naked woman with dogtags… it's pretty hot." He held up his own dogtags. "And I still have mine, so what's that all about?"_

_ "Guess I was too concerned with getting to the naked," Kim joked. Jeff grinned as he rolled over slightly to kiss her. _

"_Damn. I love R&R." _

_She chuckled. "We've been in the hotel for what, an hour?" Her eyebrows rose as she thought about that. "Good use of an hour, by the way."_

"_I do what I can," he joked with another kiss. "And that's what I'm talking about. As much fun as quickies in the clinic when I'm on-call are, this is the first time I've actually seen you naked."_

"_Almost," she pointed out, holding up the dogtags. "And really?" She frowned as she thought about that, and realized that he was right._

"_Um-hmm. I didn't even know you had a tat." Both sets of eyes fell to her right ankle. "Japanese characters? I expected so much more from you."_

"_I'm half Japanese!" she protested. "It's something Jiji always said to me growing up, when my brothers were particularly bothersome."_

"_Jiji?"_

"_Japanese for 'grandfather'," she explained. "My mom's dad."_

"_So what does it say?"_

_She raised her eyebrows. "Maybe someday I'll tell you." He chuckled slightly as he picked up her dogtags and began turning the tags in his fingers. Maybe it was the post-sex laziness, but Kim wasn't thinking about the dogtags until he decided to read it._

"_Tomblin, Kimberley A," he mused before lifting his eyes to hers. "Kimberley?" he asked teasingly. "I had no idea your full name was Kimberley."_

"_And it'll do you good to forget it," she said warningly, but his grin only widened._

"_Now, what's wrong with Kimberley?"_

"_Kimberley is a cute little blond girl with blue eyes and pigtails, filled with dreams of rainbows and puppies," she said, taking the dogtags from him and slipping them over her head before tossing them aside. "Do I look like a Kimberley to you?" He just kept grinning. "We're here together for almost two weeks, Cunningham. How do you want to spend those two weeks?"_

_He held his hands out defensively. "No more Kimberley," he promised, but the mischievous glint in his eye told her that that wouldn't be the last time she heard that name. "Now, what was that about how we spend these two weeks?" he murmured as he rolled over her again._

"_You said this would be a good opportunity to get to know each other," she said, pulling away from his kiss. He groaned as his forehead fell to hers._

"_Come on, Tomblin," he whined. "We do know each other—"_

"_Then where'd I grow up?" He opened his mouth to answer and then closed it again._

_ "Fine," he grumbled as he rolled away. "We'll play twenty questions. Where'd you grow up?"_

_ "Corps brat," she said promptly. "But my family has an orchard just outside Pateros, Washington."_

_ "Is that near Seattle?"_

_ "No. Same question."_

_ "Coatesville, Pennsylvania. Lived there with my mom and spent every other weekend with my dad in Philly."_

_ She nodded. "Siblings?"_

_ "Sister, three years younger. She writes travel articles for one of those in-flight magazines. And a half-brother. He's in ninth grade. Same question."_

_ "Brothers. Three of them, all older." He groaned, his eyes squeezed shut in pain._

_ "_Three_ older brothers? I'm dead, aren't I?" He gave a resigned sigh as she chuckled, patting his chest reassuringly. "What do they do?"_

_ "They're leathernecks," she said cheerfully, laughing at the almost-ill expression on his face. "So are my dad and both grandfathers."_

_ He groaned again as his chin fell to his chest. "Is everyone in your family a Marine?"_

_ "Don't be ridiculous. My mom teaches kindergarten." She laughed again at the look on his face as she tried to think of another question. "Why pediatrics?"_

_ He shrugged, apparently glad to think about something other than all the Marines who might want to protect their little girl from, well, guys like him. "I like kids," he said simply. "They're honest. And when they get sick, it's not their fault—nothing to blame on a lifetime of smoking and drinking and not exercising. Why the Corps?"_

_ She gave him a look. "You mean the family tree wasn't a big enough clue?"_

_ "Good point. Okay. Deepest, darkest secret." Her eyes widened slightly as she rolled away. "Okay," he said slowly. "I'll go first. I got beat up when I was twelve." He looked at her from the corner of his eye, gauging her reaction. "By my sister. She was nine."_

_ "Big deal," she scoffed as she rose from the bed. "Like I've never beaten on my brothers."_

_ He grabbed her hand when she tried to walk by, and when she looked at him, he was wearing an expression as serious as when he was working on an unstable patient. "A kid died," he said, and she sat back down on the bed. "A six-year-old girl, when I was an intern, and it was my fault. She might have died anyway, even if I had done everything right, but she might not have. And my resident took the blame, said that was his job, that he should have done a better job watching over me."_

_ "What happened to him?"_

_ He shrugged. "He claims nothing, but I know for a fact that he applied for a cardiology fellowship that he didn't get. Spent a some time as a flight surgeon on an aircraft carrier and some more time in some remote clinic in the middle of nowhere, like 29 Palms or something. He's going to start the fellowship in July, but I'm pretty sure that if I had done my job right, that he would have been accepted then." He gave her a slightly rueful smile. "And you're the first person I've said that to."_

_ She gave him a weak smile in reply as her right hand went up to her left arm, tracing the scars there, the reminder she'll always have of how badly she screwed up. "During my last deployment, I made what should have been a career-ending—and could have been a life-ending—mistake." She looked over at him to see him waiting patiently, and sighed heavily. "They tell you how isolating command is, but you never really think about it until you're there, especially when you're there in the middle of a warzone in a group that's ninety percent male." When she looked over, he was wearing an expression of beginning to suspect what she was going to say. "I slept with one of my Marines," she finally admitted. "He was a sergeant and he flirted and I was young and stupid, but that's no excuse." She chuckled bitterly as she rubbed her face with her palms. "God," she muttered. "Kim Tomblin, the Corps Jody, a boyfriend in every FOB," she said sarcastically before turning to face him again. "I'm actually not a complete slut, despite the evidence to the contrary."_

_He smiled slightly at that before becoming serious. "I see it in the hospital all the time," he said, sounding like he understood and looking like he probably did. "The male NCOs with the female officers, seeing how far they can get before they're told to stop. One of my fellow residents had to report a corpsman, because he was beginning to take things too far and she started to get nervous. Hey," he said, turning her head to him. "You were what, twenty-three?"_

_ "Twenty-two," she corrected. _

_ "Damn," he said with a slight laugh. "Twenty-two. I was a first-year medical student, spent most of the year drunk off my ass. I couldn't even imagine being mature enough to lead Marines at twenty-two, but you were, and you did. You can't beat yourself up for one stupid mistake."_

_ She shook her head, her fingers again tracing the scars. She saw his eyes drop to her arm, followed by his lips; he knew she had been shot, but didn't know the story behind it. "You know what's really fucked up about it? I got a Bronze Star out of it. We were IED'ed, and he had the radio, and I went back to get him. I could have, maybe even should have, sent a couple of Marines into the line of fire to get him, but all I was thinking about how fucking guilty I was, because after our little 'indiscretion', he offered to leave the platoon, and I told him no, we'd just forget about it. If I had let him leave—"_

_ "Then you would have had to get another radioman out of danger," he interrupted, his gaze challenging her to counter his words. "What'd you do then?"_

_ "After I helped drag him away from the Humvee—and got shot while doing so—I got on the radio and called in the nine-line."_

_ He looked at her incredulously. "_You_ called in the nine-line?"_

_ "'This is sierra-two-six, I have a MEDEVAC request, over. November-hotel-four-seven-niner-five-eight-four-two-five, stop. Six-zero point two-five, stop. Bravo-tree break charlie-one break delta-two, stop—'"_

_ "Okay, okay!" he interrupted with a laugh. "Damn. I can't even do a nine-line without the instructions in front of me, and I was specifically trained to do so."_

_ "I had our corpsman tape it to our radio," she admitted. "Just in case."_

_ "That's good leadership."_

_ "Yeah." She looked over at him and gave a slight and almost sad smile. "You know, I have a hard time remembering my grandfather's phone number, but I'll always remember that nine-line. I guess it's pretty damn hard to forget what happens after you nearly kill somebody."_

---

"Agent Tomblin," the holding cell guard said as he unlocked the bars. "Phone call. Came through Agent Gibbs."

"Thanks," she replied as she followed him to the desk, wondering who could be calling that Gibbs would see fit to make sure she spoke to. "Hello?" she said into the receiver.

_"Kim?"_ the familiar voice that could have belonged to either of two people replied. _"It's Kanten."_ She barely bit back a groan; dealing with her older brother was not something she wanted to do at the moment. _"Who was that Agent Gibbs at your desk?"_

"It's a long story," she said with a sigh.

_"Okay…"_ he said slowly. _"Listen, Kevan's been trying to get a hold of you, but you haven't been answering your phone—"_

"That's because I'm in the brig," she interrupted. "They charged me with killing my boss."

Her words were met with silence, which was, admittedly, the point. _"You do it?"_

She glared at nothing. "Fuck you, Kanten," she snapped. "You know why Kevan and I always call Karsten when we need to get in touch with either of you? It's because you're a _fucking bastard_!"

_"I had to ask."_

"No, you didn't. I'm your _sister_, dammit. You're just being an ass." She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax, getting some alarmed looks from the guard. "What the hell did Kevan need?"

_"Oh,"_ Major Kanten Tomblin said, as if forgetting that was the reason behind his call. _"He's going down to Pendleton for a buddy's wedding, wanted to get your ex's number—"_

"Jeff," she interrupted. "His name is Jeff. But you wouldn't know that, because you couldn't bother yourself to visit—"

_"I'm in Japan, Kim. Not exactly close enough to hop over for a weekend."_

"Karsten came," she pointed out.

_"Stop being a bitch,"_ he snapped. _"Do you have his number or not?"_

"It's on my phone," she sighed. "So, no."

_"Okay."_ There was an awkward pause on the phone. _"Why do they think you did it?"_

"Evidence doesn't look good for me," she said with a sigh. "And Agent Gibbs seems to think that my relationship with Jeff was some major secret—"

_"Sleeping with someone while deployed—"_

"Fuck you," she interrupted. "You know what, Kanten? At least I was _honest_ about it. At least I didn't try to hide it, although now in retrospect, maybe I should have. Probably wouldn't be in this situation right now. Maybe I should have just taken a page from your book and made a habit of keeping my 'relationships' a secret. Oh! Except I didn't think I would need to, because I wasn't married and _I didn't fuck an enlisted Marine!_"

_"Fuck you, Kim,"_ Kanten said angrily. She sighed and rubbed her eyes, aware that she had not only crossed the line, but proceeded around the track to go back and cross it a second time.

"Kanten—"

_"You know what, Kim? Maybe you're right. Road to hell and good intentions and all that. Quite honestly, I don't know why I ever tell the truth."_

"I'm sorry, Kanten."

_"So am I."_ There was another long stretch of silence. _"This team that's investigating your boss' death… They good?"_

"They're the best," she said honestly.

_"Good. Then they'll figure out that you didn't and get you out of there."_ Pause. _"Love you, Kim."_

"Love you, too, Kanten." She held the phone to her ear long after she heard the _click_ on the other end, and when she finally returned the receiver to the cradle and turned, she almost jumped in surprise at the sight of Agent Gibbs, calmly sipping coffee from a few feet away.

"Shouldn't lie to your brother," he said simply. Before she could ask what he was talking about, he said, "We need to talk. About Sergeant Benjamin Cole."


	31. Chapter 31

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 31**

* * *

"I thought you said there were only a few possible apartments that could have that view, Probie," DiNozzo grumbled as they headed down the building's breezeway toward the next apartment. "How many apartments ago was that?"

"Okay, Tony. I get the point. We have different definitions of a 'few'."

"Ten, Probie! We've been to ten! _So far!_"

"I said I get it."

"You're doing the spiel at the next one."

"Fine," McGee sighed as he rang the doorbell on the corner unit, earning a _Coming!_ in reply.

"Can I help you?" the blond middle-aged woman said pleasantly, a plastered-on smile on her face.

"Yes, ma'am," McGee replied, flipping open his credentials. "Agents McGee and DiNozzo, NCIS."

"NCIS?" the woman asked, clearly puzzled.

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service," DiNozzo jumped in.

"Oh," she said with a small, apologetic laugh. "I'm sorry, I'm still not that familiar with the Navy. My husband, he's a surgeon, he just took a commission in the Navy, and here we are."

"Yes, here we are," Tony said, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Any more of this Southern-type phony sunshine, on top of his existing frustration and practically sleepless night, and he was going to lose it. "Ma'am, do you mind if we ask you a few questions?"

"Oh!" she said, sounding surprised. "Where are my manners? Please, come in. I'm Sandra Earl, my husband is Dr. Douglas Earl, but he's at work right now—"

"Actually, ma'am, we were just wondering if we could see the views from your windows."

"My… windows?"

"Ma'am, I hate to tell you this, but a man was killed in the building across the street—"

"Oh, my goodness!" she said, her hands flying to her mouth. "Oh, my!"

"Ma'am, please, calm down," Tony said, trying to sound reassuring. "We just wanted to see if any of the rooms in your apartment look into his."

"Yes, of course," she said with a nod, seeming dazed. "Well, the master bedroom has a view out to the beach. You can't even see other buildings from that window, but maybe you can see something from one of the kids' rooms. I'll show you the way."

The first room she showed them was obviously a little girl's room: pink and purple, ribbons and bows, a flowery sign with the name 'AVA' over the bed. "Is there a view from here?"

"Uh, yes, ma'am," McGee said, peering out the window. "Uh, how old is your daughter?"

"She's eight," Mrs. Earl said, sounding proud of that for some reason. "She'll be coming home from school soon, if you would like to talk to her."

DiNozzo and McGee looked at each other, both thinking the same thing: there's no way an eight-year-old daughter of this woman would see a man get murdered and not immediately tell someone. "Are there any other rooms with this view?" Tony finally asked.

"Yes, my son's room, Alex," Mrs. Earl replied, leading the way out of that bedroom and into the next, which was a stereotypical teenaged boy's room, complete with posters of college football teams—University of Texas, Tony was disturbed to see—as well as college football cheerleaders, and DiNozzo was sure that if they bothered to check, they'd find a rather large stash of dirty magazines around there somewhere.

There was another look between the two agents, again thinking the same thing—if the occupant of this room saw anything, it was doubtful he'd say anything. And judging by the evidence of Burley's extracurricular activities, there were pretty good odds that the boy was often seeing something. "Ma'am, would it be okay if we spoke to your son when he came home from school?" McGee finally asked.

"Oh, yes, of course," she replied. "It should be any minute now..." As if on cue, the sound of the apartment door being opened was heard, followed by a thud that could only be a high-schooler depositing his backpack right by the door.

"Mom," an inpatient teenaged voice called out. "Is there anything to eat?"

"Just a second, Alex!" Mrs. Earl called back. "And there they are, if you want to talk to them," she directed at the agents. "Follow me."

They did just that, now seeing a little blond girl and a teenaged boy with the adolescent good looks and athleticism that was all the rage on the Disney channel these days, along with a heavy fracture boot and pair of crutches.

It was even more like _Rear Window_ than DiNozzo initially thought, and he was sure that they finally had the right apartment.

"Alex, Ava, these are Agents McGee and DiNozzo from—what did you say your agency was called?"

"NCIS, ma'am," McGee informed her. "Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

"Ah, yes," Mrs. Earl replied, sounding apologetic. "Sorry about that. Well, kids, they have some questions for you, if you don't mind."

"Actually, we just need to talk to Alex," DiNozzo said, his eyes fixed on the sandy-haired teenager, who rolled his eyes derisively. "Let's go back to your room."

"I'm hungry," he grumbled, but did rise from the chair, struggling with the crutches for a few seconds before hobbling toward his bedroom.

"I'll have a snack ready for when you're done!" Mrs. Earl called out after him.

"Whatever," was his surly reply.

DiNozzo and McGee followed him into the room, where he collapsed into the desk chair. "Well?" he asked impatiently. "What do you need?"

"Quite a view," DiNozzo said casually, looking out the room's large window. "I mean, you kinda have to crane your neck a bit to see the beach, but there it is."

"Bet he was more interested in the view across the street," McGee commented off-hand, idly picking up a football trophy and replacing it on the shelf before moving on.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Alex said stubbornly.

"That's too bad," DiNozzo replied. "You know, before you came in, McGee and I were discussing an Alfred Hitchcock movie, _Rear Window_. You ever seen it?"

"I don't watch old movies," Alex said, using that tone of voice that teenagers always seemed to master, the one that clearly said that they thought the person they were speaking to was a complete idiot.

"Old movie?" DiNozzo asked, sounding taken aback. "This isn't an 'old movie', Alex, it's a _classic_. James Stewart plays a guy who breaks his leg, starts passing the time by observing his neighbors out his rear window—that's where the title comes from—and ends up witnessing another guy—Raymond Burr—killing his wife. Does that sound familiar?"

"I thought you said he reported it, though, Tony," McGee commented.

"Well, yeah, there is that," DiNozzo replied, his eyes on Alex. "Anything you want to share?"

"Nope. Can I go now?"

"Nope," DiNozzo replied, imitating the teenager perfectly. He made a show of glancing around the room. "You a UT fan?"

"Duh," Alex answered, rolling his eyes. Tony smirked as he held up his hand in the 'hook 'em horns', the sign for the University of Texas, before turning it upside down, which got the desired effect. Alex flushed before snapping, "Fuck you, asshole."

"Hey," DiNozzo snapped in return, causing Alex to blink in surprise. "Careful what you say to a federal agent."

"I'm not an idiot," Alex shot back. "I know my rights, and I know you can't arrest me for something I say. First amendment."

DiNozzo raised his eyebrows. "Someone's been paying attention in government class," he said, feigning impression. "One problem, though: this isn't America." He looked up at McGee. "Since we're not on base, they're under Bahrain laws, right?"

"That sounds about right," McGee agreed. "But if we say this isn't America, we don't really have jurisdiction, so maybe we should give him his first amendment."

"Hmm. Good point, McCivics-Instructor," DiNozzo replied before pulling his handcuffs out. "Doesn't mean I can't cuff him to his chair until he starts to talk, though."

"You think having a broken leg is bad now, wait until you can't get out of that chair," McGee continued, speaking to Alex, whose eyes were wide as he thought about this. "And he'll do it, too," the junior agent continued, nodding over to DiNozzo. "He's a big college football fan, and he doesn't like your team." He feigned thoughtfulness as he studied his partner. "You don't like any teams but Ohio State, do you?"

"Buck the Fuckeyes," Alex said snidely. "Bunch of whiney asshole pansies."

"Careful, buddy," DiNozzo said warningly, jiggling the handcuffs. "Don't give me an excuse to use these."

"You should probably listen to him," McGee told Alex. "Like I said, he really gets into his college football." The teenager flushed, but didn't say anything further.

"So," DiNozzo continued, keeping his handcuffs out. "Let's talk about your view again."

He didn't think it was possible, but Alex flushed even darker. "Okay," he finally said reluctantly. "The guy who lives there has this really hot girlfriend, and they never close the blinds."

"That must be quite the show," McGee commented, trying to keep from blushing at the thought of exactly what the kid must have seen. Judging from what they had seen under the ALS, it was probably quite a lot. "So you must make a habit of watching the apartment."

"Yeah," Alex admitted.

"You watching the free show on Sunday?" DiNozzo asked, playing idly with the handcuffs. Alex's eyes fixed on those cuffs for a long minute.

"Yeah," he finally admitted.

"So you saw him get murdered," DiNozzo snapped, "and didn't tell anybody?" The blush grew even darker.

"I didn't want to admit I was watching," he muttered, looking away.

"Well, now that that's out in the open, let's talk about Sunday," McGee jumped in. "Walk us through it."

Alex sighed heavily, but began to speak. "They came in in the afternoon," he said. "Got a couple beers from the fridge. The girl popped the cap against the counter. It was… kinda hot," he admitted. DiNozzo and McGee glanced at each other over Alex's head and nodded silently in agreement. "The guy mostly stayed in the kitchen. I think he was unloading the dishwasher or something, and the girl was pacing around the living room. Then they started fighting and she went into the kitchen."

"What'd you see after that?"

Alex shrugged. "The next thing I saw was the guy fall on the floor," he admitted. "There was so much blood, I figured he was dead…" His voice trailed off and he shuddered slightly. A look of horror abruptly crossed his face. "He didn't… I mean… Would he have lived if I told someone right away?"

Despite how obnoxious the kid was, and how much time could have been saved if he had come forward from the beginning, DiNozzo took pity on him; no one, especially a kid, needed to have that on his conscience. "No," he said. "He died instantly." He watched the look of relief appear on the teenager's face. "The girlfriend," he said, trying to sound supportive. "What did she look like?"

Alex shrugged again. "I don't know. I guess… Well, she had dark hair. Uh, she was kinda short, I think—I mean, the guy looked pretty tall, and she was a lot shorter than him—and in _really_ good shape." His blush darkened at that, and McGee was pretty sure that he didn't mean that he was saying that based on watching her jogging. "That's about it, I guess."

"What about race?" DiNozzo asked. "Was she white, black, Asian…?"

"Uh, I think white," Alex said. "I don't know. It's not like I had binoculars on them or anything."

"So I guess these really are for birdwatching," McGee commented, holding up a pair of binoculars. He held them to his eyes. "Wow. Great view of the apartment from here."

"Wanna try that again?" DiNozzo asked Alex.

He sighed. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe white with a tan, or a kinda lighter skinned Arab. I don't know."

The two agents looked at each other over Alex's head again. "So she wasn't Asian," DiNozzo said slowly. Alex shook his head.

"No way," he said confidently. "Asian girls are _hot_. I mean, not that this girl wasn't, but I would know if she was Asian."

"What about half-Asian?" McGee pressed, and again, Alex shook his head.

"No way," he said again. "Half-Asian girls are even hotter than Asian girls. There was this one girl in my class back home—"

"Okay, enough of that," DiNozzo interrupted. "Any identifying marks? Any tattoos, scars, anything like that?" Alex shook his head. "What about jewelry? She wear any?"

"I don't think so," Alex replied, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he thought about that, and suddenly, DiNozzo remembered what he had on his phone.

He had known taking pictures of Mossad operatives could be a bad idea, but he was just curious to see if he could do it without getting caught. Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through the pictures until he got to the one he wanted. As an afterthought, he opened another picture first. "This her?" he asked, handing the phone over to the teenager.

"No way," the kid replied automatically, handing it back. "I told you, she wasn't Asian at all."

"Okay," DiNozzo replied, moving past the picture of Kim Tomblin and bringing up the one he was originally going to show. "What about this one?"

He could tell by the look of recognition that he got the right one. "Yeah, that's her," Alex said quickly, and Tony had to concentrate to keep from breaking out into panic.

"Okay, thanks," he said, righting himself from where he was leaning against the wall and nodding at McGee that it was time to go. "You were a big help," he said honestly. "But next time you possibly see someone get murdered, tell someone right away, okay?"

"Yeah," Alex muttered. "Can I get something to eat now?" he asked as he stood from the chair. DiNozzo just nodded as he left the room, McGee in tow. He gave a quick 'good-bye' and 'thank you' to Mrs. Earl on the way out the door, and then broke into a jog on his way down to the car.

"Tony!" McGee called out, struggling to keep up. "What's going on? Who was that you had a picture of?"

DiNozzo didn't answer him, his phone to his ear as he started the car. "Come on, pick up," he urged. "Damn it," he muttered a second later, hanging up to dial another number. "Hey, Boss, we have a problem." He barely waited for Gibbs to respond before he continued, earning a few honks as he wove through traffic. "It wasn't Tomblin, Boss. It was Elisheva Cremieux, Mossad." His lips pressed together in worry or all-out fear. "And she's headed to Yemen with the rest of the Mossad team. And Ziva."


	32. Chapter 32

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 32**

* * *

This time, Gibbs pulled all the stops, escorting Tomblin to the interrogation room and gesturing for her to enter. She stared at her usual chair as she walked in, but knew that this time, she couldn't be that lucky.

Other side of the table, indeed.

All she wanted to do was wake up from the nightmare that had been the last few days and find that it was time to get ready to go to work on Monday morning. Stan would show up, they'd take her car to the office, Freiler would appear an hour or so later with some sort of breakfast thing that Bryn baked and they'd all ignore, and they'd spend the day tracking down stolen digital cameras from the NEX and poking fun at each other.

And she'd call Jeff. If there was one thing this nightmare was teaching her, it was that that phone call, and the apology that probably had to go along with it, was long overdue.

She waited patiently for Gibbs to start talking—as she had learned from being the one conducting the interrogation, people who started volunteering information inevitably ended up saying something stupid. And she had plenty of 'stupid' in her past that could come out.

To her surprise, he didn't say anything, just sat a medal presentation case on the table and slid it over toward her. She didn't have to open it to know that it was her Bronze Star and that he had gone through her closet to find it.

"That's it," she muttered. "Never having sex again. Causes too many problems." She strummed her fingers on the closed case before she slid it back. "If you know about Cole, you know I don't deserve this." Even after she retracted her hand, her eyes stayed on that box. "You know what's really funny about this whole situation? I really don't sleep around that much. Just seems that I every guy I do sleep with is the wrong guy. My boss, my battalion surgeon, my Marine... Like I said, time to swear off sex."

He smiled slightly at that before surprising her again by sliding the box back. "No matter the reasons, what you did was a damn brave thing."

She shook her head. "More like stupid."

"Not hard to be a hero. You just run for the gunfire instead of away from it." It wasn't the first time he had said those words, but that didn't make them any less true.

"Or a smoking Humvee," she said wryly before she rubbed her eyes.

"No matter who was holding the radio, you needed it to make that call."

"Yeah." She looked down at the case again and sighed before her eyes rose to meet his. "So how'd you find out?"

Not surprisingly, he didn't answer the question. "Lotta devil dogs in your family," he said conversationally.

"Yeah," she said with a slight laugh. She traced random patters on top of the still-closed box. "Jiji—my mother's father, former Staff Sergeant Daniel Tojo—enlisted in the Corps from a Japanese internment camp and went to boot at Pendleton in a time when nobody on the west coast liked anybody who looked like the people responsible for Pearl Harbor. That's how much he wanted to be a Marine." She smiled slightly, her eyes still down. "He joked a lot, said he should have joined the Army so he could have the distinction of being in the 442d, but not even being part of the most decorated military unit in American history would make up for not being a Marine. The Corps sent him to Minnesota to teach him Japanese, and then sent him to the Pacific to use it. There weren't many Japanese-Americans in the Pacific—government didn't trust them not to be spies, I guess—but he went, and the stories he told us when we were growing up…" Her voice trailed off before looking up at him. "He earned a Distinguished Service Cross. Papa has a Purple Heart and one fewer hand than he was born with, Dad has four Purple Hearts and an MSM. My mom had a brother who died in Vietnam. My two oldest brothers… everyone always knew that they would do great things, and now they're flying helicopters at Okinawa, both in the zone for promotion for lieutenant colonel. Kanten even has a Distinguished Flying Cross. And Kevan, my other brother… Well, Dad once said that keeping Kev out of the brig while he was growing up was his biggest accomplishment as a father. He enlisted, the Corps straightened him out, and now he has a good job and a wife everyone loves and two really cute little kids." She shrugged as she looked away. "And then there's Kim."

"With a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart."

She snorted. "Yeah." Although it went against her policy of not talking unless asked a direct question, she continued. "I landed in Kuwait two days after my twenty-second birthday. I was young and terrified and had no idea why somebody would give me a platoon to command just because I said I wanted to be a cop. So I did what I thought I should do, and leaned on my NCOs." She rolled her eyes. "I guess I leaned on Cole a little bit more than I should have." She rubbed her eyes again before she continued.

"I was naïve enough to believe that, after growing up with three brothers and being 'one of the guys', that I could do the same thing in combat and that it would make me a leader." She snorted. "Dumb. We had just come back from a successful mission, and I was feeling like I was on the top of the world, that things were finally making sense and that I was getting the hang of this strange world I thought I always understood but really knew nothing about, and Cole… Cole was a squad leader and really helped me out, and I thought that the fact that he was four years older than me and had been in the Corps much longer somehow made it okay." She shook her head. "It was one time, and I knew it was a bad idea, and I think he did, too. He knew I was uncomfortable, offered to talk to the company commander, make some excuse about why he needed to switch platoons, but I told him no, that we'd just forget about it. I couldn't split him up from his squad. And because I wouldn't let him, he got his leg blown off, and I still feel guilty about that." She looked up at Gibbs. "And I felt like I let generations of my family down. I thought about everything that they had given for the Corps, and I thought about the way they raised me, and I thought about what they would think if they knew that good little Kim was having sex with enlisted Marines in theater, and so, I never told anybody why I was uncomfortable wearing this," she said, tapping on the box.

"Stan didn't know," she continued, figuring that that was why there were there. "Or, if he did, he never confronted me about it. The only people who know are me, Cole, and Jeff. And, now, I guess, you."

There was a long stretch of silence, and when Tomblin looked up again, she saw Gibbs studying her with an unreadable expression on his face. "Cole doesn't blame you," he finally said. "Said you saved his life."

"Yeah, well, it wouldn't have needed saving—"

"He also said that you were one of the best officers he ever worked with," Gibbs interrupted. "That you knew your Marines and would always do what you needed to do. Bad things happen in combat," he continued. "And when they happened to you, you did what you needed to do. You saying you would have let him die if you hadn't slept with him?"

"No."

"Then what's the problem?"

She looked surprised by that for a moment before she started chuckling. "Is this an interrogation or a therapy session?" She shook her head in wonder. "I'm sorry I lied to you."

"Don't apologize."

"I know, sign of weakness." Just at that moment, his phone rang.

"Yeah, Gibbs," he said as he answered. His eyes didn't leave hers as he listened to the person on the other. "What is it, DiNozzo?" A minute later, he abruptly hung up the phone. "Come on," he said as he rose from the chair and headed for the door.

"What?" Tomblin asked, confused.

"Time to get back to work."

"You forget that I was just in the brig?"

That got a slight smile out of him. "DiNozzo and McGee found a witness," he explained. "ID'ed the murderer."

"A witness," she said flatly. "Why is this _just_ coming out?"

"It's a fifteen-year-old kid."

"Damn dependents," she muttered darkly. "I suppose you're not going to tell me who it was?"

"Don't want to have to arrest you for beating up a fifteen-year-old dependent."

"Probably a good idea," she replied with a nod. "So if the killer was ID'ed… Who was it?"

"Elisheva Cremieux."

"Shava? The Mossad operative?" She thought about that for a minute. "Damn. And she just appeared, right after Stan got back from Afghanistan. But why would she want Stan dead?"

"That's what we need to figure out."


	33. Chapter 33

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 33**

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_By the time her Marines got her through the door to the Battalion Aid Station, the hoarseness of her voice from yelling was beginning to distract Captain Kim Tomblin from the pain in her leg. "I can fucking walk without your help," she snapped, and for probably the first time in her career, they ignored her and kept walking, all but carrying her along the way. "Hey, retreads, stop and check your weapons. This is a clinic." She pulled away from her corpsman and shrugged out of her M16 sling, hanging it on the one of the hooks on the wall before removing her pistol holster and doing the same thing. "Stupid fucking idiots," she continued, holding her arm out in efforts of keeping the corpsman away. No such luck._

_"Is that Tomblin's voice I hear?" She barely bit back a groan at the voice; she had forgotten Jeff was the on-call physician in the clinic that night, and she couldn't help the almost guilty look she had on her face when he walked into view in his ridiculous bright yellow PT shirt and blue shorts._

_She blinked in surprise at the split second of horror that crossed his features before it was replaced with a look of practiced concern._

_"The fucking idiots in my company decided that they needed to make their own fucking coffee in the guardhouse tonight," she offered as an explanation as she unsnapped her Kevlar helmet and lifted it off. "And because nobody told me about the hot coffeemaker in a very confined space, I knocked it over with my weapon, and, well," she gestured at the coffee stains surrounding the hole burnt through her pants. "In case you're wondering, Cunningham, coffee burners hurt like hell when they contact skin."_

_He smiled thinly before turning to the corpsman. "Set her up in the trauma area," he ordered. "Get an IV started."_

"_I can walk myself," she argued. "And I don't need an IV."_

"_Kim, just shut up and let me do my job." She looked up to glare at him. She should have known better than to think that would have any effect on him. "Right now, you're the patient and I'm the doctor."_

_She heard a few snickers from the small group of Marines who accompanied her from the guardhouse at the thought of their company commander playing doctor, and turned her glare on them. "Oh, that's so fucking cute, isn't it?" she snapped. "Get back to work. You guys have a gate to guard. I'll be back out in an hour or so."_

"_HM2 Weathers," Jeff addressed the corpsman. "After you get that IV started, get on the radio and inform Captain Rodriguez that he needs to take Captain Tomblin's place on watch tonight." His eyes didn't leave hers, despite her angry glare._

"_I can go back to work," she argued._

"_No," he said calmly. "You can't." They continued the silent staring contest until Tomblin had to look away to position herself on the clinic cot. He pulled up a chair next to her right leg as Weathers helped her out of her body armor and then uniform blouse before he inserted the IV needle in her wrist, starting the flow of the cold saline into her veins. When Jeff's gloved fingers brushed against the burn, she couldn't fight the impulse to flinch. "Weathers," he said, his eyes again on hers. "Go ahead and draw up two mils of morphine. No," he corrected. "Make it one. At her weight, two will probably narc her enough that she'd stop breathing." _

"_Yes, sir," the corpsman replied, moving toward the narcotics locker to get the medication._

"_I keep forgetting that you're small enough I can pretty much practice pediatric medicine with you," he teased, trying to keep the atmosphere light._

"_Go to hell," she snapped. She sighed at his upraised eyebrows. "Sorry. It just… hurts like a bitch."_

"_Hence the morphine," he replied. "Once we give it a chance to set in, I'll get this cleaned up so I can get a better idea of what we're dealing with."_

"_Sure," she said with a resigned sigh, leaning back on her elbows and allowing her head to fall back. "Fuck."_

_Jeff chuckled slightly before Weathers returned with the morphine. "I'll go ahead and get on the radio now, sir," he said after disposing of the needle and syringe. _

"_Thanks, HM2," Jeff replied. He returned his attention to his patient. "Okay, I'm going to need to see that leg, so… drop 'em."_

"_Oh, hell no," she said quickly. "The pants are ruined, anyway. Just cut them."_

"_I want to make sure I don't miss anything."_

"_And I don't want to give anyone a free show."_

_His eyebrows rose at that. "Nothing I haven't seen before," he said, his voice low and a mixture of teasing and stubborness._

_"Same can't be said for my corpsman."_

_Jeff glanced over at HM2 Weathers and sighed. "Weathers, you can go back to duty," he called out to the corpsman. "I got it from here."_

"_Yes, sir." The doctor turned back to his patient, eyebrows raised. _

"_Any day now, Captain."_

"_Fuck," she muttered again. She sat up again to untie her boot; taking a hint, Jeff got to work on the one on the burned leg, placing it on the ground as she released her belt and unbuttoned the pants. "You are enjoying this far too much."_

"_No," he said seriously as he grabbed a clean pair of gloves. "I'm not. Believe it or not, Kim, I'm not enjoying seeing you hurt at all."_

_She sighed as she tossed the ruined pants on top of the boots, leaving her socks on. "It's an unfortunate part of the job."_

"_I know," he replied before looking back up at her. "Doesn't mean I like it." When she didn't say anything, he returned his attention to the burnt skin, and this time she didn't flinch._

"_Jeff," she said softly after a few minutes, "don't call me Kim in front of my Marines. They're going to think we're sleeping together."_

_He chuckled slightly. "We _are_ sleeping together," he pointed out._

"_Well, yeah," she admitted. "But they don't need to know that."_

"_Okay," he replied. "From now on, it'll only be Captain Tomblin. Would you like me to throw in the occasional 'ma'am' as well?"_

_Despite herself, she chuckled at his sarcasm. "Ass." She was relieved to see him grin up at her before returning his attention to the burn._

"_I was thinking," he said a few minutes later, still focused on cleaning away dead skin, "since my deployment was extended to the full fourteen months, they're giving me two weeks of R&R. Maybe we can take off together, you know, to get to know each other."_

"_Get to know each other?" she teased. "You mean midnight trysts in the clinic aren't enough for you?"_

_She was surprised when he looked up with a serious expression on his face. "No," he said softly. "They're not."_

"_Yeah," she said a minute later, her voice just as soft. "A vacation together sounds good."_

"_I heard Qatar's nice?" he said, phrasing it as a question._

"_Sure," she replied. Deciding it was too much seriousness, she added, "but we're probably not going to be leaving the hotel room, so what difference does it make?"_

_He chuckled as he got up in search of bandages and creams. "Guess that's a good point." He came back with the supplies and got to work on dressing the burn. "Come back in the morning for sick call. I'll change the dressings and see how it looks," he said. "I'll see about getting hold of one of your roommates to bring you PTs and a pair of shoes, and if you're feeling up to it when that bag of saline is done, you can go back to your CHU."_

"_Thanks," she said. She grinned up at him teasingly. "It's funny to be in the clinic with you alone after midnight and not have sex involved."_

_He chuckled. "Your leg better heal soon," he joked. His expression became serious as he smoothed back her hair with his hand. "I really don't like this," he said again. "I wish you could be more careful, Kim."_

"_Not in the job description."_

"_I know."_

---

Freiler was grinning when Tomblin walked through the field agents' office. "Welcome back, Kim."

"Good to be back," she said with a tight smile. "Not to complain, but the accommodations in the brig suck. Mattress is lumpy and room service was late and cold. You got a SitRep for me?"

"I got the morning's security briefs," he said, holding up a small stack of papers."

"Those are going to have to wait, Freiler," DiNozzo said tightly as he walked through the door. He gave Tomblin a tight smile. "Good to have you back, Tomblin. Do you know how to get in touch with Dunham?"

"Depends," she said, turning to Gibbs. "You got my phone?"

"Lab." She rolled her eyes.

"Freiler, get DiNozzo Dunham's number. Gibbs, may I go down to the lab and get my possessions?" McGee walked in with a box of evidence and her eyebrows rose. "And can I have my personal laptop back?"

Gibbs gave a slight smile. "McGee, drop the box. We know who did it. Take Tomblin down to the lab to sign out her stuff."

"Sure, Boss."

"And Tomblin." She turned to face Gibbs again. "Hurry back. Got something for you to do."

"Sure."

"You ordering my agents around now?" DiNozzo asked lightly as he logged into the new computer now on Burley's—DiNozzo's?—desk. He grimaced slightly, forgetting that Tomblin hadn't heard that Vance gave him responsibility of the office. "I mean—"

"Congrats," Tomblin interrupted, giving him a tight smile before ducking out of the office to head to the lab.

Almost an hour of arguing with the evidence locker, as well as the forensic scientists, later, Tomblin had what was rightfully hers and was making a mental list of everything that had to be done to make up for her day and a half in the holding cell, with calling at least two of her three brothers near the top of the list. "Need you to call your boyfriend," Gibbs said as she walked into the office.

Well, that wasn't what she was expecting when he said he had a job for her.

"He's not my boyfriend," she answered automatically, which just made Gibbs roll his eyes. "And why do I need to talk to him?"

He took a step closer to talk right next to her, speaking at a volume that nobody else in the office could hear. "Tried calling him last night. Cell phone went to voicemail and clinic said he's on leave."

"So maybe he's on leave," she replied slowly, trying to figure out what was so confusing about that. The look he gave told her that something was up, but he didn't say anything further. "So I'll try to call him," she muttered under her breath as she headed for the stairwell.

"Here, Tomblin." She rolled her eyes, but took a seat at her desk as she scrolled through her contacts for Jeff's name.

_"You've reached Jeff Cunningham. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you."_

"Jeff, it's Kim. Call me, it's important." She hung up and turned to Gibbs and shrugged.

"Try his mother's number," was all the supervisory field agent said. She sighed and scrolled through her contacts again.

_"Hello?"_

"Hi, Pam. It's Kim."

_"Kim! It's good to hear from you! Are you in the country?"_

"No," she replied, squeezing her eyes shut. "No, I'm still in Bahrain. Pam, I really need to talk to Jeff, and he's not answering his cell phone, and the clinic said he's on leave."

_"Well, I don't know about any leave, but he's not here. I doubt he's been in the Eastern time zone since Christmas."_

Her eyes flew open, her head snapping over to face Gibbs. "Okay," she said slowly. "Thanks, Pam. If you do hear from him, tell him to call me, no matter what time."

_"Kim? Is everything alright?"_

_No, Pam. I just got out of the brig, I was there because NCIS thought I killed my boss, and now it looks like Jeff is somehow involved with everything that's going on. _"Yeah, Pam, everything's fine," she said instead. "I just… need to talk to Jeff."

_"Okay. I'll pass along your message if I hear from him. It was good to hear from you."_

"You, too, Pam. I'll talk to you later." She hung up the phone and pushed her hair back with her hands. "He's not there," she said. "His mom hadn't heard from him in a while."

Gibbs stared at her, his blue eyes penetrating. "The phone call you got from him six months ago," he said. "Need to know what it was about."


	34. Chapter 34

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 34**

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Tomblin stared at Gibbs for a long moment as she replayed the conversation in fast-forward, trying to remember what it was about. The yelling at the end she remembered, but the stuff that came before... "He was having a bad day," she began. "He had a couple of drinks before he called. Not enough that he wasn't making sense, but I could tell…" She shook her head slightly, getting back on topic.

"He was on a consult service that month," she began again. "Um, that means that he doesn't have any patients directly, but he sees patients to help other doctors with infectious disease problems. There was a patient in the pediatric ICU who was really sick, I think Jeff said he had some sort of cancer, on top of everything else. The kid was four." She frowned and looked away, still trying to remember the meat of the conversation.

"Why'd he call you about a sick kid?"

She looked back up at Gibbs and frowned. "Pneumonia," she said, remembering. "The kid had pneumonia, which was made even worse by the fact he already had cancer. Jeff said they spent days trying to figure out what was causing the pneumonia—which bacteria—and they finally realized it was anthrax. Obviously, that raised all sorts of flags, because four-year-old kids in San Diego shouldn't be getting inhalational anthrax. They tested everything they could find and found anthrax spores in a rug the kid's dad had sent over from the Middle East."

"He was deployed."

"Yeah, but Jeff wouldn't tell me where he was or who he was, said it was a HIPAA violation or something. I got… I got so _mad_, because the first time he calls me in six months was about a patient and he wouldn't tell me anything useful. I mean, what's the point in calling an NCIS agent about a kid with anthrax with possible connections to the Middle East if you _won't say what that connection is?_" She stopped herself and took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down, and she shrugged. "We argued about that for a while, and then he just said he wanted me to be careful. And that was it."

"Who knew about the phone call?"

"Stan and Freiler knew he called, but I didn't tell anyone about what it was about. I didn't see the point. I couldn't exactly look up every sailor or Marine who was deployed to the Middle East from San Diego and question them about whether or not they sent an anthrax-laced rug home. Couldn't even check the postal logs from the bases, because a lot of things are sent by civilian post. By the next day, I shrugged it off, figured that there's no way a guy would send a rug home that he knew had anthrax spores; it had to be accidental. Anthrax spores are found in nature, especially on animal hides and wool, it was possible that that's where it came from." She shrugged again. "And if the kid didn't already have cancer, it's likely that nobody would have gotten sick and nobody would have known."

Gibbs nodded slightly. "What happened to the kid?" he asked.

"Kid died," she said softly. "That's why Jeff was so upset."

"When'd the kid die?" Both Gibbs and Tomblin turned to DiNozzo, who was watching them with interest.

"It was the day he called," she finally replied. "Late March at some point. Um, it was right after Stan returned from Afghanistan—during the Aachen investigation." The interim SAC in Bahrain frowned as he picked up a piece of paper.

"March 27?" he asked. She shrugged.

"Could be. Sounds about right. Why?"

DiNozzo's eyes went from Tomblin to Gibbs and back again. "Because Lt. Hoskins' four-year-old son died on March 27. At Bob Wilson Naval Hospital in San Diego."

---

The Mossad team still had a few hours before they were rolling out for the terrorist camp, which gave Ziva plenty of time—too much time—for preparation. As if there was anything left to prepare after two days of doing nothing but preparing.

She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and sighed at the lack of signal; no big surprise in the middle of nowhere in northern Yemen, but still disappointing. She needed something to pass the time, and knew that Tony would be able to keep her entertained as long as necessary.

"Cells phone are pretty useless out here," Cohen said, sounding amused. She turned to face him, seeing the operative seated on the ground, a partially dissembled weapon in his hands and a smirk on his face. "There are no towers."

"I realize that," she replied as she replaced it in her cargo pocket. "I am just—"

"Pre-mission jitters," he finished for her.

"Which is ridiculous, because I have been on many missions," she said quickly before sighing. "But this one…"

"Are you still feeling uneasy about it?" he asked with a frown. She nodded as she took a seat next to him.

"I do not know why," she admitted. "We have plenty of weapons and ammunitions, we have binds for prisoners…"

"I do not know, either," he said when her voice trailed off. "But I feel the same way."

She chuckled slightly. "The two with the most experience, and we are acting like new recruits."

"Maybe it is the experience talking."

"It is not too late to turn around and go back."

He studied her for a long minute, and when she searched his gaze for any sign that he thought of her as weak, all she saw was concern. "Is that what you want?"

"No." She pulled her primary weapon out of its holster and accepted the cleaning kit when Cohen handed it over. "They are preparing something. If we do not take this opportunity, there may not be another." Ziva glanced around, seeing only her and Cohen in the room of the small concrete building. "Where are Shava, Avrum, and Dunham?"

"Setting up communications. Next room over." She nodded, completely dissembling the weapon before reaching for the cleaning kit.

"We are leaving in two hours?" she asked.

"A little less than," he replied.

"Is Shava ready?"

"She prepared her weapons while you were napping." He nodded to the neatly-arranged line-up of holsters and weapons. Ziva counted four handguns and a knife set, and gave a slight nod of approval.

The two operatives continued their preparations in silence, two people who had little experience working together but enough experience on the job to know what needed to be done. Over the next hour and a half, weapons were cleaned, ammo was counted, holsters were applied, and earwigs and microphones were attached. Ziva glanced over at the two operatives who would be her team for the mission, and took a final deep breath, knowing that this was the last opportunity they had to turn back.

"We are ready."

---

Tony DiNozzo was running on adrenaline, caffeine, and sugar, and still felt like he was about to crash.

"You need sleep."

He looked up in surprise to see Kim Tomblin watching him with eyes narrowed, and for the first time, saw the fatigue in her blood-shot eyes, her tangled ponytail, the slouch in her shoulders. "You're not really one to talk, Tomblin," he shot back. "Spending the night in the holding cell and still here at," he glanced at his watch, "2300?"

"Yeah," was all she said, a smile barely flitting across her lips and her eyes returning to the computer screen in front of her. He watched her for a long minute, the way she squinted at the monitor as she massaged her temples, and he began to wonder which of them was suffering the most. He was dealing with the fact that Ziva was gone on a mission, unknowingly with a cold-blooded murderer with no identifiable motive, and wouldn't be back for days.

If at all.

Tomblin, on the other hand, was recently released from the holding cell after being arrested for the murder that Cremieux committed and just found out that a man she knew—boyfriend, was what Gibbs said—was missing and was somehow connected to Hoskins.

Okay, so Tomblin won that one. The holding cell alone was worth quite a few points; he had been there and done that and was glad he hadn't been the one starring in the sequel.

He was still trying frantically to figure out how to get in touch with Dunham or Ziva or anyone else who would know how to find them and stop them from doing… whatever it was they were going to do, with a very well-armed murderer in their midst, but so far, all of his phone calls and emails were leading to dead ends. "What are you working on?" he asked, nodding toward Tomblin's screen, and she gave a bitter laugh in response.

"I wish I knew," she admitted. "I'm trying to figure out where Jeff fits in all this. Abducting a doctor who diagnosed anthrax six months ago… It doesn't make any sense."

"There any way he could be involved?"

"In terrorist activity?" she asked with a frown. "Making a bioweapon? No. No chance at all. He takes all of his oaths far too seriously for that—to the nation and to the practice of medicine. Naval Academy, Harvard Medical School… No way he'd turn his back on that."

His eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "Who is he?" he finally asked. "This Jeff?"

"Jeff Cunningham. He's a pediatrician, in the Navy," she said. "Specializing in infectious disease. He was attached to my unit during my last deployment as a battalion surgeon."

"And you were… involved?"

She gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah. _Involved_. Makes it sound so… clinical, or something. Simple. But, nothing's really all that simple during a war. I just… got in too deep."

"And he didn't."

"No, that wasn't the problem," she said with a frown. "If anything, he went over the deep end first. It was my second deployment, so I had some idea of what to expect, but it was his first, and he was out of his element—a doctor with an assault rifle, a pediatrician practicing on adults, an officer who didn't have troops. And he tried to take something normal, like a relationship, and make it fit in a clearly abnormal situation, and that didn't always work." She gave another bitter chuckle. "He was always telling me to be careful, and I always got so annoyed, thought he didn't have any confidence in me, but he—"

"Just didn't know how to deal with the worry." She looked over at him and saw that he knew exactly what that was like, and nodded.

"Yeah. I think that was it. And then we got back home, and neither of us was sure if we had room in our non-Iraq lives for the other."

He frowned. "You could have done your probationary period in San Diego," he pointed out. "You didn't have to go to the Northwest Field Office."

"I know," she said. "I thought it would make it easier if things ended then, if we didn't have to have to go through the transition-back-to-real-life stages trying to hold on to a relationship that might have just been a war-time fling."

"Did it help?" He found himself thinking about a summer on aircraft carriers and not calling, and wondered if he had subconsciously been doing what she had consciously done.

"I thought it did," she admitted. "Then, a year and a half ago, I realized it didn't, but… it was too late."

"Maybe it's not." She gave him a weak smile.

"Guess we'll have to find him and find out."


	35. Chapter 35

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 35**

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_Tomblin leaned forward to grab another cookie before rising from her chair. "Another fine evening," she joked, slipping her holster over her PTs. "Rodriguez, good cookies, tell your wife I said thanks."_

_"Fitting, since you ate half of them," Captain Rodriguez remarked. "You know Ronnie, always looking out for our little Tomblin to make sure she doesn't lose too much weight. Next time, I'll tell her to just give up the façade and address them to you."_

_"Admit it, you guys wouldn't know what you'd do without me, if I got sent home for being under weight standards," she replied. "I eat to look after your asses." She grinned and gave a small wave. "See ya tomorrow."_

_Heading out of the CHU, she paused, debating where to go. It was still fairly early in the night, especially considering she didn't have duty until noon the next day. She could go back to her place, maybe send off a couple emails and read her book, or… She smiled wickedly before turning and heading for the battalion aid station, hoping that Jeff's night on-call was a quiet one._

_She stopped immediately after crossing through the door to the aid station to unfasten her holster and hang it on one of the hooks provided for that reason—weapons weren't allowed in the actual clinic. Before heading all the way in, she listened for any sounds, hearing only the rumbling of the generator._

_She found Jeff at the computer, his eyes going back and forth between a sheet of paper on the desk and the monitor, and just stood there for a moment, watching him work. She wondered if he knew how serious and intense he looked when he was being Dr. Cunningham, as opposed to Jeff, and realized with a little bit of surprise that that was one of the things she liked most about him. He had a great sense of humor and never missed a beat in their back-and-forth, but he was capable of turning it off and being an adult._

_As if aware that he was being watched, he looked up from his work, his eyebrows rising as he registered who was standing there. She grinned in return and walked toward him. "Early night," he commented, checking his watch._

_"Huh," she replied, checking her own before shrugging. "Guess we didn't BS as much as usual." He frowned._

_"Are you sure you were there?" he asked, feigning thoughtfulness. "Because whenever Tomblin's around, you know at least one person is going to be full of shit." She laughed and smacked him on the chest._

_"What're you working on?" she asked a minute later, craning her neck to read the monitor. He didn't try to cover it up, so she knew it wasn't a patient record._

_"It's flu shot season!" he said with mock excitement before rolling his eyes. "The numbers need to be submitted up to brigade, and since I'm supposedly in charge around here…" He shrugged. "Speaking of which, have you gotten your flu shot yet?"_

_"Security Company's scheduled for tomorrow," she informed him. "I'll come in early, with first platoon."_

_"I can just do it now, if you want."_

_"Believe it or not, Cunningham, I didn't come in for a flu shot." He grinned at that before rolling his eyes. _

_"We have company," he said, nodding to one of the cots. "Contractor with chest pains. I'm baby-sitting and checking labs until I determine how important it is that he goes to the next level of care. And command lets me know when MEDEVAC is possible."_

_"He looks like he's sleeping," she said thoughtfully. Jeff chuckled._

_"Ah, determination. Just one of many of your many traits I admire," he joked. As if on cue, the overweight middle-aged man on the clinic cot began groaning about pain. "I swear, I'll fucking kill you myself," Jeff grumbled as he got up to check on the patient. "If only you knew what you're interrupting…"_

_Kim just chuckled as she leaned back in her chair, propping her feet up on the desk, closing her eyes briefly._

_She must have been more tired than she realized, because the next thing she knew, Jeff was back, watching her with amusement. "Good morning, sleeping beauty," he joked. "Sorry I'm not doing a better job of keeping you… entertained."_

_She chuckled, righting herself in the chair. "Believe it or not, I do know that you don't spend every third night in the clinic for my benefit," she replied. He grinned, and the next thing she knew, his lips were on hers. "Do you ever think before you do that?" she asked when they separated. "If someone had seen us—"_

_"Thinking is highly overrated. It's all about action. I would think that a devil dog like you would know that."_

---

Within minutes of the actual mission starting, things began to go horribly, horribly wrong.

The three Mossad operatives split up, going different directions through the camp in efforts to apprehend Hoskins, with the secondary mission of capturing as many terrorists as possible. Moving quickly required them to move quietly; tranquilizing guns were much more quiet than their more lethal counterparts, which were to be used when there was no other option.

Which was why Ziva was alarmed when the sharp reports of gunfire erupted.

"Kill as a last resort!" she ordered into the microphone, with no change in the volume or tempo of the shots. "Avrum!" she snapped. "Where is it coming from?"

_"Shava's location,"_ the analyst replied promptly. _"She's not responding."_

"Has she been hit?" She was in a well-defended position at the moment, with two options: help Shava, or continue forward.

_"I do not know," _Dardik admitted. _"I believe she is still firing her weapon."_ Ziva muttered a Hebrew curse under her breath as she reached a decision; they had to get Hoskins. She had to hope that whatever Cremieux was doing, she could stay alive until Ziva and Cohen had the opportunity to go back for her.

Her tranquilizer gun in hand, she crept around the corner, leaving the wall she had been pressed against since she heard the shots fired. Apparently responding to the same commotion that got Ziva's attention, she saw a man in woodland camo pants and a turban run by.

One shot to the neck and he hit the ground.

She continued from room to room, most abandoned on account of everyone rushing toward the source of the gunfire, as she continued to follow what was happening through the earwig, waiting for someone—anyone—to speak and give her a SitRep. For as much as Shava's mistake bothered her, though, it was making her job of clearing the camp much simpler.

And the next thing she knew, the gunfire stopped. "SitRep!" she demanded. "Shava, do you read?" There was no response. "Cohen?"

_"I am unharmed,"_ the operative replied, his voice tight. _"I am attempting to locate Shava."_

"Avrum?"

_"She is in the building in the northeast corner of the camp,"_ the analyst responded promptly. _"I still do not know her status."_

"What happened?"

_"With any luck, we will find Shava unharmed and she can answer that for us,"_ Cohen replied.

Ziva knew she was getting close to the young operative's location when she began passing bodies on the ground; quick checks confirmed that they were dead, not merely sedated, and she swore again.

Dead terrorists are very difficult to interrogate.

She was about to enter the building Dardik identified as Shava's location when the gunfire erupted again, this time directed at her. She pressed her back to the building as she switched out her weapon for one significantly more deadly; the situation had gotten to the point that she was more concerned with not getting killed than questioning anybody.

"Shava, report," she ordered, her words met with silence. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, turned, identified the figure as a threat, and fired, all within half a second.

She turned and entered another room, the action punctuated by another burst of gunfire, immediately followed by words spoken in English from the next room: "Don't shoot! _Don't shoot! _I'm a doctor!"

Ziva kept her weapon up as she followed the voice. "You are American?" she called out, immediately ducking around a corner at a single gunshot that rang out, which was followed by a sing-song voice speaking English with a French accent.

"Yes, he is American," Shava called out. Ziva slowly turned around the corner, reentering the room, keeping her weapon at the ready. "He is in your precious United States Navy. Say hello to Liaison Officer Ziva David, Dr. Cunningham."

Ziva's eyes were fixed on the Mossad operative, the weapon in her hand and the dark look on her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blond man slouched on a cot and leaning against the wall, his face bloodied, one eye darkened in a bruise. "I'm Lieutenant Commander Jeff Cunningham," he finally said, the adrenaline making his voice shake slightly. "United States Navy."

"Now your turn, Ziva," Cremieux said, her voice still mocking. The gun was fixed on Cunningham, but Ziva didn't let herself believe that she was out of danger.

"Ziva David," she said a moment later. "Mossad. Liaison to NCIS."

"NCIS," Cunningham blurted out. "Where's Kim?"

"Kim Tomblin?" Ziva asked with a frown.

"They said… They told me they have her," Cunningham continued.

"That's enough, Doctor," Shava ordered.

"Agent Tomblin is in Bahrain," Ziva informed him. "How do you know her?"

"It is really a very sweet story," Shava said sarcastically from the other side of the room. "I would say that he could tell you later, but I do not think there will be a later for either of you."

"Let him go, Shava," Ziva said, her voice low. "You have been behind all of this. Agent Burley's murder, Lt. Hoskins' disappearance, this organization. It is your doing?"

"Well, I cannot take all the credit. It was really a… group effort. Until that idiot Hoskins decided to send his family a souvenir of his time in the Middle East."

"The anthrax-laced rug," Cunningham said, and Ziva couldn't figure out if it was for her benefit or to keep himself talking and therefore distracted from the position he found himself in. "The one that killed his son."

"Yes. And then Agent Tomblin's dear Dr. Cunningham figured it out, and he just happened to have a relationship with an NCIS agent in the Middle East, which he took advantage of when he called her to inform her. What is that song? It is a small world after all?"

Ziva adjusted the weapon in her hands as she sorted the events out in her mind. "You requested a transfer to Bahrain after Lt. Hoskins' son became sick," she said. "You seduced Agent Burley and murdered him and framed Agent Tomblin, to hope to distract attention from what was about to happen in Yemen." She frowned, moving slightly to get a better angle on the other operative. "But why abduct Dr. Cunningham?"

Shava shrugged a shoulder. "No loose ends," she replied. "He knew about the anthrax. He could give advanced warning, and between him and Tomblin, they would likely have figured it out. And a doctor is always useful, especially when he brings with him a large supply of antibiotics."

"Why?" Ziva asked. "Why do this? What do you have to gain?"

"If you do not know the answer to that, there is no use explaining." For the first time, Shava's eyes left Ziva, over to Cunningham, and Ziva took advantage of that lapse of concentration, firing three times in rapid succession, directly to Elisheva Cremieux's forehead.

She wasn't fast enough, though.

With a gasp, she felt the searing pain in her left side that could only be from a bullet. The warm stickiness she felt on her fingers when she pressed her hand there only confirmed it.


	36. Chapter 36

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 36**

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**

Ziva pressed her hand to her side, feeling the warm blood seeping through her fingers as she struggled to catch her breath and stay upright. She finally decided that standing was highly overrated, and slid down the closest wall. "Cohen," she managed. "Report."

_"My head was hit. I was briefly unconscious. I am making my way to your position now."_

"Hoskins?"

_"Dead,"_ he said grimly. _"Single shot to the head."_ He paused. _"And Shava?"_

"Also dead." She would explain it to him later, sometime after she could concentrate on something other than the pain.

She swung her pistol to the left in surprise at the sudden increase in pressure over her wound, having completely forgotten that there was another person alive in the room. "Relax," Dr. Cunningham said. "I have an unfortunate amount of experience with gunshot wounds, and I'm going to get really pissed if I crawled over here with a broken leg, only to get shot by my patient."

Ziva nodded as she lowered the weapon. "Dunham," she said into her microphone, wincing at the weakness in her voice. "We need an evacuation. There is a POW on site, a Navy physician, with injuries." She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to catch her breath. "There are also around two dozen unfriendlies, both dead and sedated, who need identification."

_"And your status?"_ the NCIS agent asked.

"Shot," she replied. "To my side. It is not serious." She heard Dr. Cunningham snort and shot him a dark look.

_"I'll keep you updated."_

She returned her attention to Cunningham, taking in the concerned look on his face. "How is it?" she asked.

"The bleeding has slowed down," he said. "Let's take a look." He was only using his right hand—he was holding his left to his side, the bone at an unnatural angle—so Ziva helped him lift her shirt to get a better look at her side. "I think you were right, actually," he said, making her wince as he gently probed the wound. "It's just along the flank, not actually in the abdominal cavity. You might not even need stitches." He lifted his eyes to hers. "Kim is really okay?" he asked tentatively.

"She is fine," Ziva assured him, and she saw his features relax, a slight chuckle coming from his lips.

"Of course she is," he said, now sounding amused. "I should've known better than to think she'd let anyone pull one over on her."

She chuckled, then winced at the pain in her side. "And your injuries?" she asked a minute later.

"Left radius and ulna fracture," he said, nodding to his arm. "And right tib/fib—leg. I know the face looks bad, but I think it's just bruised, not broken."

A sudden noise got Ziva's attention, and the handgun was again up and ready in seconds, lowered when David Cohen entered the room. "You are hit," he said in Hebrew, his face concerned.

"A flesh wound," she assured him in English. She wondered what the large grin that crossed his face was about, and had a sneaking suspicion that Tony would probably be able to explain it to her later. She nodded toward the physician. "Cohen, meet Dr. Cunningham. He is a friend of Agent Tomblin."

Cohen smiled slightly. "I did not know Agent Tomblin had friends who did not regularly carry weapons," he joked.

"We met in Iraq," Cunningham replied.

"That explains it, then."

_"David, Cohen."_ Both Mossad operatives stopped at the sound of Dunham's voice in their ear. _"I've gotten in touch with DiNozzo in Bahrain. He'll be leaving by helo within the hour with Agents Tomblin and Freiler and a medical crew. Can you hold tight until then?"_

Ziva had no idea what holding onto anything had to do with waiting for reinforcements to arrive, but she saw a slight nod from Cohen and figured that things were good from his end. "Do you need anything specific from a medical crew?" she asked Cunningham.

She could practically see his mind quickly working through all of the recent events. "In addition to basic medical supplies—bandages, pain killers—either ciprofloxacin or doxycycline. For the anthrax, if we've been exposed."

"Did you get that, Dunham?"

_"Ciprofloxacin or doxycycline. Got it,"_ the NCIS agent replied. _"Dardik and I are going to tear down here and head your way. Hopefully we'll be arriving before the helo. Until then, you're on your own."_

"Understood. Thank you, Agent Dunham." Ziva looked up at Cohen. "And we are sure that any threats have been neutralized?"

"Yes," he said, sounding almost amused. "I did a very thorough search of the place. The ones that were tranquilized have been bound in case they awaken. Unfortunately, Shava appears to have gotten to the majority of them first."

"Covering her tracks," Ziva said with a sigh.

"It appears your concerns about her were correct," Cohen agreed. "Does this mean I will soon be hearing an 'I told you so'?"

"I believe we can forgo that for the moment." She began working her way up the wall, accepting Cohen's help when he offered it. "Can you help Dr. Cunningham?" she asked him. "His leg is broken, and I think it would be a good idea if we are in open air when that helicopter arrives." She took a few experimental steps; her side burned, but she could walk. "And while we wait, perhaps the doctor could tell us how the threat of harm to Agent Tomblin led him to Yemen."

---

_Jeff Cunningham had never been so angry in his life._

_"Steph, you're overreacting—"_

"I'm not overreacting, Jeff. You've been a different person since you arrived in Iraq—"

_"I am not a different fucking person!" he cut her off. "I am the exact same fucking person I was four months ago—"_

"You see, Jeff, that's exactly what I'm talking about. You're always angry, and I've never heard you swearing so much—"

_"I am around f—around Marines twenty-four hours a day, Stephanie. How the hell do you think you would talk?"_

"But I wouldn't be around Marines!"_ He felt his fists—both of them, even the one holding the clinic phone—clinch into tight fists, and he began banging his head against the wall, not even caring if his fiancée—ex-fiancée?—could hear it._ "It took me a while to get over your Navy thing—"

_"My 'Navy thing' is my life, Stephanie. I never fu—I never lied to you about that."_

"It's a job. It's not your life."

_He gave a bitter laugh. "How the hell do you think anyone would be able to convince me to go to the middle of a fucking warzone if it was just a fucking job? You told me you understood that—"_

"I thought it would just be a few years—"

_"Fifteen! Fifteen fucking years, Steph! I told you it was fifteen fucking years! At the least! You knew I went to the Naval Academy. You knew—"_

"Do you really see yourself working on some Navy base for your entire career?"

_"Yes!" he shouted. "Yes, I do! Dammit, Steph, I love my job! Yeah, Iraq sucks. Yeah, it makes me a pretty angry person sometime, but these kids—"_

"And you're just proving my point!"

_"Stephanie—"_

"This was not a decision I took lightly, Jeff! There was already a deposit in on the reception hall—"

_"Do you think I'm honestly thinking about the fucking reception hall right now?"_

"Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be. You being in Iraq has made me realize that we're two different people—"

_"We have always been two different people, Steph. You said that that was you loved about me, that I wasn't the same as everyone else around Harvard—"_

"Jeff… We should have realized sooner…"

_He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Listen. I'll call you tomorrow, when we've had some time to think—"_

"I told you! I have thought about this! Jeff, I already sent the ring to your mother…"

_"Fine!" he yelled when her voice trailed off. "Fine, Steph. Have a good fucking life." He angrily hung up the phone before picking up the receiver again and banging it against the wall. "Fuck!"_

_"Careful, Cunningham." He spun around quickly to see Tomblin leaning against the clinic counter. "You might need that phone someday."_

_"What the hell are you doing here?" he snapped, not caring about whose feelings he hurt at the moment._

_The petite MP pointed into one of the bays. "Jacobs twisted his ankle playing football. It's a banner day for my company." She offered him a tight smile. "Sorry. About that." She pointed at the phone. "I'm sure if you give her some time—"_

"_She already mailed the fucking ring to my mother."_

"_Oh." She stared into the bay for a moment before looking back at him. "Well, it looks like your PA has everything taken care of. You want to go shoot something?"_

_Countless rounds of ammunition at a surprisingly deserted range later, he had to admit that Tomblin was onto something with suggesting going shooting. There was something about knocking down targets that made him feel infinitely better about the fact that his fiancée had dumped him from thousands of miles away while he was taking care of Marines fighting a war. "I don't even think it's the fact that she called it off that pisses me off so much," he said as he slapped another magazine in the M9. "I think it's the fact that she did it when I'm in fucking Iraq."_

"_Life sucks," Tomblin said simply. He caught the smile that she was trying to hold back tugging at her lips. "And then you die."_

"_Is this where you say 'oorah' or something?"_

"_Something like that." This time, she was grinning outright. "You wanna make this interesting?"_

"_How interesting?" As if he had a shot in hell at beating her._

"_Dinner?"_

"_Burger King?"_

"_Ooh, big spender." She gave him a teasing grin._

"_I'll even let you get the large fries. Nothing too extravagant for me," he replied dryly. "After all, I graduated from Harvard."_

_There was something about the way she chuckled, something that made him realize something that he felt he should have realized a long time before. With Stephanie, it was always about being someone he wasn't, about hoping that attending medical school at Harvard would make him fit in, when he always felt like the kid from rural Pennsylvania who liked to fire guns and wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. _

_Around Tomblin, all he ever had to be was Cunningham, and he could say and do whatever he damned well pleased, and she'd just chuckle and give that little smile of hers. He could tell her exactly what he thought about everything she said, and she would do the same, and he had never gotten along better with anyone in his life._

_Without thinking about it—and he probably should have thought about it, considering she was holding a loaded weapon—he had closed the space between them, lifting her chin and tilting his head down to meet her lips with his. He could tell she was surprised at first, and then she started to respond, her lips opening and her left hand coming up to his neck. "Jeff…" she murmured when they came up for air. "What the hell are we doing?"_

"_I don't know," he admitted. He was looking down at her—damn, she was tiny; he had never appreciated that as well as he did at that moment, standing so close to her—when her eyes opened, and saw the conflict in them. She pulled away, returning her attention down the firing range._

"_Not at the range," she finally said, glancing back up at him before turning to the weapon in her hand. She flipped the safety and stuffed the M9 in her holster. She began to head for the exit before turning to him, eyebrows raised. "Are you coming?"_

_Yeah. Definitely should have realized that a long time before._


	37. Chapter 37

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 37**

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**

Ziva David was the first of the three waiting at what was left of the terrorist camp to notice the approaching jeep. "Cohen," she said, elbowing the Mossad operative in the chest—hard—to wake him up from where he had fallen asleep against the outer wall of the concrete building.

Instantly awake, he sprung to his feet before helping Ziva to hers, feigning ignorance of her grimace of pain as she straightened. They both stood ready as the vehicle approached, raising their weapons as it moved into firing range.

"It is Dunham and Avrum," Cohen said, lowering his weapon. Ziva nodded slightly and followed suit, her weapon falling to her side before she tucked it back away in her holster. She turned to Cunningham, who had remained seated during this.

"It is our colleagues," she informed him, earning a slight nod in response.

The NCIS agent and Mossad analyst barely had time to get out of the jeep when the _thrum_ of the incoming helicopter was heard. "Your Agent DiNozzo is on his way," Cohen teased Ziva; she rolled her eyes in response. Her left hand dropped to bullet track in her side, and she knew she'd be hearing about that soon enough. She took a deep breath to help steel herself against grimacing in pain; there was no need to distract Tony when he had work to do. She'd tell him about the wound once she was sure that the camp was secure, even though it meant that she'd have to put up with his whining about the fact that she didn't tell him about her injuries right away. For someone who claimed to understand how dangerous her job was, Tony DiNozzo sure did complain a lot about those dangers.

"Cohen," Cunningham called out. "Help me up."

"You have a broken leg," Ziva reminded him, turning from the income helicopter to frown at him.

"Believe me, I know," he replied dryly. His eyes went up to the helicopter before falling back on the Mossad liaison officer. "She got shot and still helped pull a guy twice her size out of a Humvee. What kind of guy would I be if I let a broken leg keep me on my ass?"

"Wonderful," Cohen remarked wryly as he helped the pediatrician to his feet. "A bloody romantic."

"No," Cunningham replied with a grin. "A realist. She _is_ a Marine."

"You do have a point."

The helicopter touched down a few hundred yards away from where they stood, the wind from the rotors blowing dust over them. Cunningham took a deep breath and let it out in a rush, trying to figure out if what he was doing was completely unrealistic or not. He hadn't even seen Kim in person in a year and a half—since Qatar during his second deployment—and the last time they had spoken over the phone—six months ago—he had been drinking and she had gotten so angry at him that she told him if he didn't have anything worthwhile to say, that there was no point in them talking to each other.

And yet, ever since he was taken from his San Diego apartment almost two weeks before, all he could think about was the fact that one or both of them was going to die without her knowing how he felt about her.

If she stopped at any point between the helicopter and him, he would know that she didn't feel the same way.

It wasn't hard to figure out which figure coming out of the helo was Tomblin—she was, by far, the shortest—and his eyes followed her as she approached their position with the rest of the team. At that distance, back-lit from the large headlight the helicopter had, all he could make out was her silhouette, but he knew that she could see him.

And she didn't stop.

Practically the next thing he knew, her hand was at the back of his neck, pulling his head down toward her, her lips on his and his right hand on her head behind her ear and over the hair that was too tightly braided for him to weave his fingers in it.

_Thinking is highly overrated. It's all about action._

"Jeff," she said when they separated, her voice somewhere between elated and breathless. "God, Jeff, I can't believe you're here... and you're okay."

"Well, not quite a hundred percent," he joked in reply, knowing from the aching bruises that decorated his face that he was smiling like an idiot, but still couldn't do anything to stop. "I'm so sorry, Kim, for all of this. They told me that they had you, that they would kill you—"

"Stop," she ordered, giving a short laugh. "Nobody is going to be charging you with anything." He couldn't tell if it was the sand, or the lighting, or if she actually did have tears in her eyes, but they were definitely glistening with something. "Ever since all this happened…"

"Kim," he said, cutting her off. He was aware of how strange the situation was—he was standing on one leg, holding her with one arm, feeling the bulletproof NCIS vest she was wearing, and they were surrounding by Mossad operatives and NCIS agents and Navy corpsmen—but he didn't care. "I've had a lot of time over the last couple of weeks to do some thinking, more time than I ever wanted, and… Kim, I should have said this years ago, and maybe we would have figured out a way to make this work if I had, but I love you. I don't remember which of us came up with this idea that our careers were more important, or if it was both of us, or if a decision was ever made at all, but… this fucking sucks."

She laughed at that, her hands clutching his shirt, and he decided that she definitely did have tears in her eyes. "You've been thinking all that?" she asked, her head tilted to the side in her scrutiny of him. "Really? Because I barely think about you at all."

"You are so full of shit." He tugged at her braid, tilting her head up toward him for him to kiss her again.

"Those were the first words you ever said to me," she reminded him with a grin as they parted. "I do love you, Jeff. I think I was already falling in love with you when you got left at the metaphorical alter thousands of miles away."

His smile widened at that, but he didn't bother saying anything in response, knowing that he didn't have to. Instead, he just kissed her again before releasing her from his arm. "Go, Kimberley. You have a job to do. And I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't call me that," she said warningly before pulling him down for another kiss. She gave him a tight smile and turned away, pulling her Sig out of her holster. He followed her retreating figure until she disappeared into the shadows, and when he turned back toward the group of corpsmen waiting to assess his injuries, his eyes fell on Cohen.

"I was right the first time," the Mossad operative said with a sarcastic smile. "A bloody romantic."

"Hey," he replied, nodding in the direction Kim had gone. "Half-Asian girl with a gun. You can't tell me that's not hot."

---

_Captain Kim Tomblin entered the CHU to a barrage of cheering and protein bars tossed in her direction. "What the hell?" she asked as one glanced off her shoulder._

_"We have a new mission," 1stLt Gorsuch informed her. "Operation Fatten-Up Tomblin."_

_"Oh, go to hell," she shot back as she bent down to retrieve the bars—no use letting somewhat-edible food go to waste, after all._

_"We're serious, actually," Captain Rodriguez chimed in. "Came down from battalion. If you slip under weight standards, they're shipping your ass home, and we'll have to pick up your slack."_

_"Your concern for my health is touching." Her eyes narrowed as she processed his words. "You saying the colonel told you motherfuckers to fatten me up without saying one goddamn word to me?" Her gaze went from one man to the next accusingly, stopping at a new member of their evening TV watching group, wearing a bright yellow Navy PT shirt and an expression of wide-eyed astonishment. That reaction got a smirk out of her; the United States Marine Corps wasn't for little girls, and she loved the looks on their faces when she proved she wasn't one. "Who's the fucking squid?"_

_"He's the new battalion surgeon," Rodriguez informed her. "And my new roomie. Just came in from Kuwait last night."_

_"Ooh," she said teasingly, making a show of her eyes grazing his body. "A doctor."_

_"Careful, Cunningham," Gorsuch joked. "Looks like Tomblin has her eye on you."_

_"You know what they say," Captain Anderson commented wryly from his position on Gorsuch's bunk. "There are two types of girls in the Corps: the dykes and the sluts. And Tomblin ain't batting for the other team."_

_She flipped him off, her mouth too full of protein bar at the second to respond. "Really, Anderson?" Tomblin asked dryly after swallowing the surprisingly tasty treat. "Sexually harassing the battalion provost? Can you be a bigger fucking idiot?"_

_"But you make it so goddamn easy," Anderson replied._

_"I will kick your ass," she informed him, and this time, the doctor was fighting to keep from smirking. "What?" she asked, directing the word at him. "You don't think I can take him down?"_

_"Careful how you answer this one, Doc," Rodriguez warned. "Tomblin is one-oh-five pounds of solid, purebred devil dog muscle. She's so goddamn tough that bullets are afraid of her. They just bounce off, as if they hit a lead wall. When the Marines took over Abu Ghraib from those Army doggies who tried their damnedest to fuck it up, the al-Qaeda terrorists we had there just surrendered, because they didn't want to have to face Tomblin in the torture chamber."_

_"It's true," Tomblin said matter-of-factly as she crossed the CHU to take the one available seat, Rodriguez' MIT chair that she always rolled her eyes at and therefore they always saved for her when she was the last to arrive. She took another bite of the protein bar, chewing leisurely, waiting to speak again until she swallowed. "But what Rodriquez forgot is that I also eat recruits for breakfast and castrate guys for fun." _

_"You are so full of shit." The room got a little bit quieter at his words, waiting to see how she would respond. She slowly turned to him, her eyes narrowing. His eyebrows were raised challengingly, his lips barely upturned in a smirk, waiting for her to counter his words._

_She allowed a smile to slowly tug at her lips before she offered her hand to shake. "I'm Kim."_

_"Jeff," he replied with a wide grin, those blue eyes sparkling. "It's nice to meet you."_


	38. Chapter 38: Conclusion

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 38--Conclusion**

_A/N: Don't worry, there's still one more chapter to come (an epilogue), so this isn't the end yet._

_For everyone who said they were looking forward to a reunion between Tony and Ziva... Sorry. I tried to write something, but everything seemed all forced or cliche (or forced and cliche), so I scrapped any conversation that would have happened in favor of "actions speak louder than words". Sorry if you feel cheated, but to me, this feels more real to the characters. I hope you agree._

_

* * *

_It took four days of solid paperwork and Mossad questioning of captured terrorists and video conferences with people at all points around the globe to get the whole situation figured out and squared away.

Elisheva Cremieux, born in France and raised by a paternal uncle, had plenty of pent-up anger on top of the typical teenage angst when she was approached by an extremist organization at fifteen. The ideal secret agent—young enough to be manipulated, intelligent enough to be worthwhile, pretty enough to get the wrong type of attention from the right people, Jewish enough to have a place in Israel—she had been a sleeper since she ran away from home at sixteen. An affair with a deputy director of Mossad had given her the leverage she needed to be assigned to Bahrain when the time was right; another affair, with the NCIS special agent in charge of the Bahrain Field Office, had given her the intelligence she needed to know where both Mossad and NCIS stood on the events in Yemen. The most likely explanation that anyone could figure out was that Stan Burley had been killed after he mentioned to her the fact that Special Agent Chad Dunham was coming to town to brief him on the increased activity of the camp.

Lt. Commander Jeff Cunningham, the pediatric infectious disease fellow who diagnosed Ethan Hoskins' anthrax infection, had called the only person he could think to call about it—NCIS Special Agent Kim Tomblin, who looked enough like Cremieux, down to almost-identical petite builds, that they could be mistaken for one another from a distance, a fact that the turned Mossad operative used to her advantage—from his unsecured cell phone, which had been bugged after his first meeting with Lt. Hoskins' son. Framing Tomblin for Burley's death had always been the plan, in efforts of removing as many agents as possible who might be able to figure out what was going on from the picture, and was why Cremieux had used the same kind of knife that Tomblin never made a secret that she always carried with her.

Kidnapping Dr. Cunningham had actually _not_ been in the plan. He was supposed to be killed in a 'random act of violence' outside his off-base apartment in San Diego. However, the operative tasked with that mission—one who had been killed by Cremieux in Yemen—had done more thinking than he was supposed to do and thought that having a physician as a hostage could give them extra leverage. He had shown Cunningham a picture of Tomblin that Cremieux had taken, one carefully angled while Tomblin had been booking a suspect into the NCIS holding cells to make it look like she was the one behind the bars, and told him that they were holding the NCIS special agent, and would kill her if he didn't cooperate. They had him fill out the leave paperwork to give them a two-week head start before anybody started to look for him, and then they were off to Yemen.

When Tomblin had seen the fax of the leave paperwork after the fact, she immediately picked up on Cunningham's insertion of his duress phrase, which made Gibbs wonder if he was getting too old for the job—he never considered checking Cunningham's Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape paperwork for the pre-arranged duress phrase, evidence that he was being made to write something against his will.

It had taken DiNozzo, Tomblin, and Freiler a few hours to clear the Yemen camp; analyzing the intelligence that that had produced, they realized that four of the twenty terrorists who had been captured or killed were former detainees who had been released to Yemen in the early days of clearing out Guantanamo Bay. That sparked very heated debates—all out arguments, would be a better way to describe it—between Vance, Gibbs, DiNozzo, Tomblin, Ziva, and Cohen about how that information should be handled. Submitting it up the chain through NCIS would almost guarantee that the information would be hidden somewhere to keep from embarrassing the current administration by the fact that they had released terrorists who came very close to unleashing a bioweapon on American soil. Mossad, on the other hand, couldn't care less who they embarrassed, and would make sure that the world knew how badly the United States had screwed up, the same way they did after September 11, 2001, when they revealed that they had warned the Americans, months before the Twin Towers fell, that al-Qaeda was up to something involving pilot lessons.

In the end of these debates, Vance ordered all of them to keep their mouths shut, that he would take care of it. In the privacy of their room at the Gateway Inn and Suites that night, however, DiNozzo asked Ziva to give all the details to Mossad Director Ruthven. If an embarrassed administration would put more thought into their actions before releasing known terrorists, he was all for it. He knew that that action, which could be interpreted as releasing information to a foreign intelligence agency, could result in him losing his job—if not land him in prison—but he knew Ziva would never rat him out.

To nobody's surprise, Director Vance made Tony's position as the Bahrain SAC official; in response, Director Ruthven reorganized the Mossad operations coming from that office, making Ziva the _katsa_—case officer—for a dozen operatives through the Arabian Peninsula and Horn of Africa, with a smaller group of one analyst and one operative—Avrum Dardik and David Cohen, respectively—in the office itself.

By the time they cleared the terrorist camp in Yemen and returned to Bahrain, the gash in Ziva's left flank from Shava's bullet had been open for greater than six hours, too long to be safely stitched up without risk of infection. Dr. Earl, the surgeon in Bahrain, had done a pretty impressive job scrubbing it clean—Ziva was in so much pain from the procedure that she couldn't get off the table for an hour—before bandaging it up, prescribing more antibiotics, in addition to the doxycycline she had been put on in case of anthrax exposure, and giving very strict orders—looking directly at DiNozzo, who refused to budge from Ziva's side, despite his frustration with the fact that she didn't say a single word about getting shot until they were back on the helicopter after clearing the camp—to avoid strenuous activity, including sex, until it was healed.

On the morning of the fifth day after returning from Yemen, DiNozzo glanced up from the computer monitor on Burley's—_his_—desk to smirk at Agent Kim Tomblin as she walked into the office. "You're late, Tomblin," he said lightly.

"Sorry," she said with a grin as she unlocked her top desk drawer and stored her Sig. "Traffic."

"Yeah," he replied thoughtfully. "It is a bitch, coming from the hospital." It was the next building over. "And you need to stop smiling. It's been four solid days of you walking around grinning like an idiot. It's freaking me out."

She shrugged, her grin widening. "Sorry," she said again. "I can't help it." Freiler, from his desk on the other side of the room, just shook his head and chuckled.

"Your doctor boytoy's still hospitalized," Tony said thoughtfully as he studied the younger agent, her eyes rolling at the absolutely ridiculous nickname that he regretted as soon as it was said, "so I know you aren't getting any…" At that, Kim quirked an eyebrow.

"You sure about that?" she asked teasingly.

"You aren't, are you?" he asked, now confused.

"Jealous?" she asked sweetly.

"Give her a break, DiNozzo," Freiler chimed in. "She's in love. It was bound to happen eventually. Even to Kim."

She just smiled and rolled her eyes at that before nodding to Tony's computer. "What're you working on?"

"Administrative crap," he answered automatically. "I don't know how Gibbs has been a supervisory field agent for so long without getting fired. He never does paperwork." He frowned slightly as he studied Tomblin. "What about you?"

"Still working on that endless litany of paperwork from the camp and the subsequent interrogations," she replied, making a face. "Why? Something you need me to do?"

"I was thinking," he began slowly. "Cunningham's a witness, for both NCIS and Mossad, to quite a lot of terrorist activity. He should probably be kept in protective custody. Maybe an agent should be keeping an eye on him." He couldn't help but grin at the shining of her dark eyes. "And ideas of who I should send?"

"I'll see you later," she said quickly, already on her feet and retrieving her Sig and badge. "Later, Freiler."

"I'll have Bryn send over some cookies," he called after her retreating form.

"Don't you dare!" she called back.

---

When Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David entered LCDR Jeff Cunningham's hospital room a few hours later, they found him propped up in bed with both of his broken limbs elevated on pillows. True to his prediction in Yemen, nothing in his face had been broken, just bruised. He still had some redness on his forehead and a black eye—now a yellowish-green—but overall, looked much better, although that could have just as easily been explained by the fact that he, like Tomblin, seemed to have a smile permanently on his face since they landed in Bahrain. At the moment, his right arm was over Kim Tomblin's shoulders, his hand playing with the previously-ponytailed black hair as they watched something on Tomblin's laptop, both of them laughing.

"Two people in a hospital bed… never a comfortable arrangement," Tony remarked. Cunningham didn't miss a beat.

"Kim's so small, she really only counts as half a person," he said with a grin, earning an elbow to the ribs. "Ow. Broken rib, Kim."

"You didn't even know you had a broken rib until you saw the x-ray," she pointed out. "Pansy," she added as she leaned forward to stop the DVD. Although it was true that Tomblin's small frame didn't take up much room on the bed, Cunningham wasn't exactly crowding her—at five feet and nine or so inches, and around 160 pounds, he was a good deal taller than Tomblin but still far from giant. "What's up, DiNozzo?"

"We finally managed to get medical transport set-up for Cunningham that doesn't require a stop in Germany or DC first," he said. "Tomorrow morning, direct to San Diego."

"Oh," Tomblin replied, her smile disappearing. She looked over at Cunningham before returning her attention to DiNozzo. "Tomorrow morning?" she echoed reluctantly.

"He's still a witness," Tony pointed out. "Needs to be accompanied by an agent. Interested in a free trip stateside?"

And instantly, the smile was back. "I think that's an assignment I can deal with," she joked. "Thanks."

"That's not all." He handed her the papers he was carrying. "These are for you."

She studied them for a long minute before looking up again. "Transfer papers to the San Diego Field Office?" she asked.

"Not quite," he said quickly. "Yes, it's in the San Diego Field Office, but it's a new position that I pitched to the director; he's still trying to figure it out. Think of it as the agency's expert in terrorism related to extremist Islam. It'll probably involve a lot of travel, when agents need an on-site consultation for cases possibly related to terrorism, and a lot of one-on-one play time with Homeland Security. And it's only if you're interested," he added. "I already talked to Agent Henderson, told her it's your decision. You want the papers, you have them. You don't, you can shred them. It's up to you."

"Wow," she said, running her hand through her hair. She turned to Cunningham. "What'dya say, Jeff?" she asked. "Think you can put up with me full-time?"

"I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "You kick in your sleep."

"I kick when I'm awake, too," she shot back, making him chuckle.

His expression became serious again. "Are you sure you want this for your job, Kim?" he asked. "You told me you liked being stationed in the Middle East. You've always wanted…"

"There are terrorists in San Diego, too," she reminded him when his voice trailed off. "After all, one managed to kidnap you from right in front of your apartment." She smiled slightly at her own words. "And terrorists in a lot of other places, too. Maybe it'll be good for the agency, to have someone bouncing around pretending to be all expert-like." Her expression became serious, her voice softening. "You said it, Jeff. This situation sucks. I've done this challenge. Maybe it's time for another one. Like marriage and making babies."

"You want to get married and have kids?" Cunningham asked, making Tomblin frown.

"Okay, I said that to freak you out, and you not freaking out is kinda freaking me out," she said. He chuckled and kissed the top of her head.

"Well, you know how much I like kids," he joked, laughing at the look on her face. "Come on, Tomblin. When have I not called you out on your bullshit? How about we start with living on the same continent and go from there?"

"Deal." She grinned and tilted her head up for a quick kiss before turning back to Tony and Ziva. "I guess that means I'm not going to be able to clear out my apartment before I go. If you guys want to use it until you find your own place, I don't see a problem with that. Just let me know when I need to arrange to have the movers to pick up my stuff."

"Thanks," DiNozzo said with a nod. "It's going to be a bachelor pad for a few weeks, though."

"I still have things to arrange in Tel Aviv, as well as getting things wrapped at NCIS and two apartments worth of stuff to consolidate and arrange to be moved to Bahrain," Ziva explained. "It is likely four weeks' worth of work."

"It's true," Tony said. "Except it's wrapped _up_, not just wrapped."

"Yes, Tony," Ziva said dismissively before turning back to Tomblin. "I feel I should apologize to you. I was not as quick as Tony to doubt your guilt," she informed her. "When you asked me if I would not be angry if someone had killed Tony, I took that to mean that you had a relationship with Burley. I thought it odd if you were speaking only of work, because Gibbs is my boss, not Tony, and-"

"I guess I didn't think about that," Tomblin said with a slight laugh. "I guess I just kinda think of Gibbs as, well, un-killable. And speaking of Gibbs... where are Gibbs and McGee? I wanted to say good-bye before they took off."

DiNozzo checked his watch. "Probably on the tarmac," he said. "Flight's taking off in an hour."

"Then I better hurry," she said, scrabbling out of bed carefully to avoid jostling any broken bones. She leaned over and gave Cunningham a quick kiss. "I'll be right back," she promised. "No watching the movie until I return."

"Fine," he grumbled good-naturedly. She grinned and headed for the door. "Kim," he called out, stopping her. "I just realized… You still haven't told me what your tat says."

"Oh," she said with a chuckle, her eyes falling to her ankle, which was currently covered by her khakis. She looked back up at him and grinned at how appropriate those words were for the situation. "It says, _'Know what you want'_."

---

Tomblin found McGee and Gibbs exactly where DiNozzo said they'd be: on the tarmac, waiting patiently for permission to board the Gulfstream that was taking them back to DC.

She gave McGee a quick hug goodbye and promised to keep in touch before she turned to the supervisory field agent, who was watching her as he sipped from his cup of coffee. "I just wanted to say… thanks," she finally said. His eyebrows rose at the word.

"Don't hear that much from people I arrest," he finally said. She chuckled slightly.

"Yeah, wasn't too fond of that," she joked before becoming serious. "But you didn't stop looking. You could have tossed me on a plane back stateside, and with that evidence against me, there's no way I wouldn't be convicted and sent to Leavenworth. But you didn't; you kept the investigation open, and because of that, you were able to clear me, and find Jeff, and stop God knows what from going down with that anthrax we found." She swallowed, her throat suddenly thick. "And, thank you, for the time I worked for you, but most of all, thanks for… that impromptu therapy session."

He smiled slightly and surprised her with a hug. "You were a damn fine Marine, Tomblin," he said, his voice low and his head tilted down to her ear. "And you're a damn fine agent." He released her and picked up his bag. "If Cunningham ever finds himself stationed in DC and you need a job, you have one on my team."

She nodded and smiled and watched him walk away toward the plane, Tony and Ziva heading to intercept them before they boarded. Ziva gave both McGee and Gibbs a hug. Tony stepped forward and shook McGee's hand before saying something with a grin, probably giving some sort of advice about how to survive as Gibbs' senior field agent.

And then Gibbs turned to his former senior field agent and shook his hand, and they were off.


	39. Chapter 39: Epilogue

**The Price of Honesty: Chapter 39--Epilogue**

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Gibbs had to check the clock in the pilot's lounge after they exited the plane at Andrews Air Force Base to figure out what time it was before he pulled out his phone and found a familiar number. _"You at Andrews?"_ Dr. Sonja Gracy asked when the call connected. Judging from the background noise, she was in her car somewhere.

"Just landed," he confirmed. "You want dinner?"

There was a pause at the other end of the line. _"I'm in Virginia,"_ she finally said. He frowned and was about to ask what was in Virginia before he remembered that Maddie and Nate's swim team was in Virginia, and that this would be about the time to be picking them up. _"How about Chinese?"_

"I'll get take-out."

_"No, I'll pick something up,"_ she replied. _"It's going to take you a while to get up from Andrews, this way I can get the kids fed. I'll see you at my place?"_

"See you there," he said before hanging up the phone. He turned to his new senior agent, who was standing and waiting patiently for instructions. "Go home, McGee," he said. "I'll see you in the office tomorrow."

"Have a good night, Boss," McGee replied with a tight smile.

True to Gracy's prediction, almost an hour had passed between his phone call and pulling into the driveway of her brick Chevy Chase home, and after a long minute of sitting in his car thinking about how different things would be at work the next day, he opened the door and got out.

The ringing of the doorbell was met with the sounds of two young voices yelling that they would get it and a stampede of footsteps, a race that was easily won by Maddie, with almost three years' worth of height and strength on her brother. "Hi, Gibbs!" she greeted enthusiastically as she opened the door.

"Hello, Maddie. Nate," he said with a nod to the seven-year-old being mostly blocked by his older sister, his dark red hair sticking up in every direction.

"Mom's in the kitchen," Maddie said, anticipating his question. "She's been on the phone since we picked up dinner, and she's pretty ticked off." He couldn't help but smile at the serious tone she said that in, and allowed himself to be led into the kitchen.

True to Maddie's words, Gracy was pacing around the kitchen, still in her ACU pants and undershirt, her boots and ACU blouse likely abandoned by the door into the garage. She had a heavy-duty black brace on her wrist, which made him wonder if she hurt it again. Before he got the opportunity to ask, he remembered that she was supposed to be wearing that brace non-stop for another year, after a serious sprain while she was in Iraq. Stubborn as she was, though, he rarely saw it on her.

Gracy met his eyes and rolled hers slightly. "No, Chuck," she said, returning her attention to the BlackBerry held against her ear. "It's not that difficult! You say no, you say that I have other obligations—I don't care what other obligations, Chuck. Think of something. They promoted you to colonel for a reason; I'm assuming you're somewhat intelligent." She squeezed her eyes closed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yeah, I understand," she said reluctantly. "I know it's good for AFIP, but I really don't—yeah, okay. Just let me know the dates and I'll arrange the flights. Have a good night." She hung up the phone and closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Hi," she said to Gibbs.

"You always talk to colonels that way?" he asked, amused.

"I've known Chuck since I was an intern and he was a forensics fellow; I just can't think of him as a colonel, and I doubt he can, either." She smiled slightly and rolled her eyes. "What can I say? It's the medical corps. Don't worry, I'm not planning on committing career suicide any time soon. I'm getting myself a very large glass of wine. Do you want one?"

"You got any beer?"

"In the fridge," she said, nodding toward the appliance as she poured her wine.

"So what are you not committing career suicide about?"

She rolled her eyes again. "I was subpoenaed to testify as an expert witness for the defendant on a criminal case."

"For the defendant?"

She shrugged. "I don't care which side of the aisle it is. The science is the same."

He didn't agree, but he didn't argue. "Stabbing?"

"Um-hmm."

"What's the problem?"

She shrugged. "Civilian case in New Mexico. Subpoenas to testify in civilian court have to be approved by my superior officer, and I don't have the time in my schedule with everything else I'm supposed to be doing, to fly to New Mexico. Unfortunately, Chuck disagrees. Ironic, since _he's_ the one who keeps giving me things to do." She sighed again and shook her head slightly.

"So you go."

"So I go."

"Mom?" They both turned to the entrance of the kitchen, where Maddie was now standing, hands on her hips and an almost scolding expression on her face. "Why are you still wearing your uniform?"

"Because I've been off the phone for exactly one minute since walking through the door," she replied. As if on cue, the BlackBerry rang again. "Oh, you've got to be kidding," she muttered as she picked it up and checked the display. "Maddie, it's your Uncle Mark. How about if you and Nate talk to him for a while in the den."

"Okay." The nine-year-old ran forward and took the phone from her mother before running off with it, chattering in German.

"Nice dodge."

"Thanks." She chuckled slightly. "Although I'm going to have to speak to him at some point. His Coast Guard Reserve unit has been called up. They're leaving in two weeks for a year of pirate patrol in the Indian Ocean and surrounding gulfs, something about increased terrorist activity in Yemen or something. He hasn't updated any of his paperwork since his last deployment, which was a kid ago, so he's been calling about twice a day to ask questions about what needs to be done. That's it," she said abruptly, placing her glass on the counter. "I'm going to change. I'll be back in a few minutes."

She released her hair from its regulation bun, shaking it out as she headed down the hall. "Jethro," she said, turning around to face him, uneven waves of sun-streaked auburn hair falling over her shoulders, and for a long minute, they just looked at each other. "I'm glad you're home."

"So am I."

---

Two weeks after waving good-bye to Gibbs and McGee as they boarded the Gulfstream in Bahrain, Ziva David reappeared at NCIS Headquarters at the Navy Yard without any warning. "Ziva," McGee said in surprise as he watched the Mossad officer step out of the elevator, and with those two syllables, all activity in the bullpen stopped, everyone turning to the elevators. Ziva observed this with upraised eyebrows.

"McGee," she greeted as she approached. "I see you did not waste any time making yourself at home."

The new senior field agent's face blushed a deep red. "Well, I, uh—"

"Relax, McGee," she said teasingly, leaning over Tony's old desk to pat him on the cheek.

"My call," Gibbs said from his desk. Ziva looked over at him and smiled slightly.

"I know, Gibbs," she replied with a nod. She didn't expect the desks to remain empty as shrines, much like her desk was to Kate Todd before she joined the team; they had taken new jobs, not died.

Her eyes traveled over the other members of the bullpen, a slight smile tugging at her lips as she registered who was sitting in her old chair. "Dwayne," she greeted with a nod. "Welcome back." After the pre-FLETC recruit had assisted them with a bank robbery a couple of years before, she had no idea what had happened to him, or even if he had survived his probationary period, which apparently, he had.

"It's good to see you again, Officer David," he said with a nod, and her eyes fell to McGee's old desk, where a mousy-looking woman was sitting, looking rather nervous.

"That's our new probie," McGee said, filling her in. "Special Agent Catherine Burke."

"Nice to meet you," she said with a nod before turning back to McGee. "Will she survive?" she asked, her voice low.

"Not likely," McGee whispered back. She grinned at that as she straightened, finally turning to face Gibbs.

"How's the side?" he asked, and her hand went involuntarily to the still-dressed wound on her left.

"Healing," she replied. "Slowly, unfortunately."

"Probably good you and DiNozzo aren't on the same continent."

"That fact is likely not slowing the recovery process," she agreed. "Well," she said. "I should probably speak to Director Vance. I will see you in a few hours, yes?"

"Assuming we don't get called elsewhere," Gibbs replied as she headed up the stairs toward the director's office.

A few hours of conferences and out-processing later—with many more hours still to be completed before she could leave for Bahrain—she returned to the bullpen, finding everyone exactly where she had left them. She turned to the new senior field agent and smiled slightly. "You do have the stuff from mine and Tony's desks, yes?"

"Actually, Abby has it," McGee admitted. "She said that way, she could be sure that you would stop by and say good-bye."

"I could never leave without saying good-bye to Abby," Ziva replied, already heading for the elevator. "I do not know if that is even physically possible."

"I should go with you," McGee said quickly, jogging a few steps to keep up. "Tony had a lot of… stuff. You're probably going to need some help getting it to your car."

They found the forensic scientist in the exact same place they had found her countless times before: standing at the lab bench, the music blaring so loudly she hadn't registered their presence. Ziva took advantage of the few seconds she had before she would be hit with a countless barrage of questions to memorize everything about that space—the enlarged microscope images, the ceaselessly working machines, the spare Caf-Pow in the evidence refrigerator, the random pictures of friends and family that Abby had attached to the walls over the years. Her eyes fell on one that, despite the many times she had pulled it from the wall, always managed to reappear in the same place: a black-and-white still image from a surveillance camera, Ziva sitting on the arm of a sofa and leaning over toward Tony's seated position on the couch to kiss him, her hair down and obscuring both of their features. It was during an undercover mission, about a week before the date Tony considers their relationship to have started, and despite the many times that she had asked, Ziva couldn't figure out why Abby liked that picture so much.

"Ziva!" She turned to Abby barely half a second before finding herself engulfed in a very tight hug. "I'm so glad you're back!"

"Only for a couple of weeks," Ziva made the mistake of saying. As a response, Abby squeezed her even tighter.

"I can't believe you're leaving!" Abby wailed. "And I can't believe Tony's already gone!" She finally pulled away, allowing Ziva to take in the oxygen her lungs had been begging for. "How is Tony? Is he doing okay? He's not getting sunburnt in the desert, is he? I—"

"I have not seen Tony in person in two weeks," Ziva reminded Abby. "But he assures me he is doing well, although he is quite busy. He has not yet been assigned another agent since Kim transferred to San Diego. And I do not know if he is sunburnt. Likely not, because he has not said anything, and for a person who whines about a paper cut for a week, I cannot see him suffering a sunburn quietly. McGee says that you have mine and Tony's things?"

Abby reluctantly led them to her office, where three cardboard boxes were stacked and waiting. "The bottom two are Tony's," Abby said unnecessarily. "I didn't know that much stuff could be fit in a standard NCIS desk, but, well, Tony will never cease to amaze me."

"Nor any of us," Ziva commented with a smile, lifting one of the boxes, which was probably the only thing that kept Abby from wrapping her arms around her again. "I still have two weeks," Ziva reminded the forensic scientist at her pout. "This will hardly be the last time we see each other."

---

When everything in DC was said and done, Ziva stepped out of the hotel—both her and Tony's apartments had been emptied, their belongings moved into storage until they had an address in Bahrain—to see a familiar yellow muscle car waiting in front, the MCRT leader leaning against the door, one coffee in hand and another on the roof of the car.

Without a word, he tossed the key to her, which she correctly assumed was to stow her suitcase in the trunk, not to drive the car, which was why she tossed them back after slamming the trunk lid shut.

They didn't speak as Gibbs barreled down the Beltway toward Dulles International Airport, both sipping their coffee in silent contemplation.

Without asking which airline, Gibbs pulled in front of the drop-off location for Delta Airlines and stopped the car, removing the key to open the trunk again. Once the suitcase was safely on the sidewalk, he wrapped his arms around her. "Take care of yourself, Ziva," he said into her ear. She smiled as she pulled away.

"I always do," she assured him.

"Keep DiNozzo out of trouble," he continued, and her smile widened.

"That is significantly more difficult," she cautioned. They continued to stare at each other silently for several long minutes. "I will see you later," Ziva finally said as she bent down to retrieve her suitcase.

As he watched her enter the airport and walk toward the ticket counter, he knew that that was a promise.

**The End**

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_A/N: Thanks for making it through the story, especially considering that I almost didn't. When I began writing initially, the plot I had in mind was that Tomblin and Burley were involved in a clandestine relationship (more of a relationship than 'hey, we're drunk, let's have sex'), and in efforts of showing interest in her life/her past/whatever, Burley did some research into Tomblin's Bronze Star, and discovered either 1) that she had been sleeping with Sergeant Cole, or 2) that things hadn't occurred the way they were reported, but she didn't set the story straight because she wanted the honor of having earned the medal. Burley confronted her about this, then she killed him in a fit of blind rage, or some such thing. Gibbs and co. finds this out and she confesses in a teary and dramatic scene before they load her up onto a plane and send her to Leavenworth for killing a federal agent._

_But then I got into writing about Tomblin, and writing about her relationship with Cunningham, and I didn't like the idea of locking her up in Leavenworth for her entire life, nor did I like the idea of her being a murderer at all. So directions got changed, the focus of the story got changed (and the title no longer fit as well, but it was too late to change at that point, so I'm asking you to use your imagination here and pretend it works), and my focus changed. I got so into the back story of those two that I started writing it down, and I've started posting it on my account on fictionpress. If you're interested in reading it (and please be interested in reading it), check it out: www . fictionpress . com/s/2781381/1/Falling_on_Unyielding_Ground. (copy and past the address and remove the spaces around the dots; this is the only way FFN would let me post a website)._

_The next story in the series (and yes, there will be more of the series; after all, Ziva just promised Gibbs that they'll see each other again) will come sometime after I'm done writing the Tomblin and Cunningham story. And no, I'm not one of those people who will try to guilt you into reviewing by saying that I write faster the more reviews I get, because that's just not true. That being said, I do like reviews, and I definitely wouldn't turn any of them down._


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